


leaving there too soon

by marginaliana



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: 5 fics in 5 weeks challenge, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drunk Sex, M/M, actually a lot of drunk sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it happens, they're drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, they're both drunk. Absolutely arseholed, in fact, so much so that James isn't quite sure he isn't dreaming it, even while it's happening. On the walk back to his flat from the pub, the hot summer air on his face, having to stop halfway because Jeremy was doubled over laughing. In the dark of the entryway, stumbling against the wall and Jeremy's hands in his hair and then somehow, suddenly kissing. And kissing, and kissing, and kissing. In the bedroom, the taste of beer on Jeremy's lips and salt sweat on his neck, Jeremy's fingers curled around his cock, the soft sound of his gasping breaths as they rutted against each other. 

When James wakes in the morning, he's alone. He stumbles out of bed, nearly tripping over his boxers which are lying abandoned in a sad heap on the floor. He pulls them on, and a shirt, and opens the door of the bedroom only half-awake. 

In the living room, Jeremy is asleep on the sofa with a blanket pulled over him. James stands in the doorway for a long moment, hung over and fuzzy-brained, just watching him and trying to decide if he really had dreamt the whole thing. It wouldn't be the first time he's dreamt about sex with Jeremy, though usually his imagination is a bit more creative than frottage and hand jobs under the covers. 

The trouble is, he can hardly ask. "By the way, did we have sex last night?" It's not going to go over well no matter what the answer is.

Eventually James stuffs all his confused worries into the back of his brain and goes into the kitchen to start making breakfast. Jeremy shuffles in a few minutes later, eyes half-closed and making exaggerated grabbing gestures in the direction of the coffee. James snorts and hands him a mug from the cabinet. "Toast and bacon in a minute."

Jeremy yawns. "Brilliant. I think your sofa is getting worse, by the way. I feel like I slept on a bag of rabid hyenas."

It must have been a dream, James decides. Because no one, not even Jeremy, would think that was the right thing to say to someone the morning after you'd just shagged for the first time. Somehow he can't muster up too much disappointment about the unreality of it all – yes, he'd have liked it to actually happen, but he's wanted that for years now and known it to be a hopeless wish since even before he'd actually started. Having it once again not happen is pretty much just a return to the status quo.

"Funny," James says. "I was just thinking your hair looked a bit like something that had been shat on by a wild animal." 

"You are a cruel, cruel man," Jeremy says. "But for bacon, I'll forgive you."

After breakfast they go their separate ways – Jeremy back to his own flat to pack for a trip to Greece, James to his garage and his half-disassembled Honda. The next time they see each other it's a week later, filming a race in Belgium; Jeremy is more ridiculously attractive than ever, bright-eyed and laughing, and James tries not to think about it.

\-----

The second time it happens, they're drunk. Less so than the first time, or at least James is, though he's still staggering back to his flat beside Jeremy. They'd come back from Belgium a few days ago and barely made it off the plane before Jeremy was proposing drinks at James' local on Friday night. Richard had planned to come but canceled at the last minute; one of his girls was sick. To tell the truth, James hadn't missed him much. 

When they come up the walk, Jeremy slings an arm over his shoulders. It's an unexpectedly cool night, and James can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of their shirts. Something about that last dream of himself and Jeremy together has wormed its way into his brain and he's having a harder time than usual ignoring all the things he wants to do – wants to slide his hands up under that soft tee-shirt, wants to get his mouth on the rough skin of Jeremy's stubbled jaw – and he's just about managed to tamp down on these urges when Jeremy turns his world arse over teakettle by leaning in rather than away, by pressing his lips to James' in an unmistakable kiss.

James has forgotten to leave the front light on so he gets the door open purely by feel. It's barely shut behind them before Jeremy kisses him again, sloppy and heated, pushing him back against the wall. James groans and kisses him back, spreading his legs to let Jeremy press even closer as they grind together. Eventually he has to break the kiss, tipping his head back to suck in air. After the darkness of the street and the front step, the bright hallway bulb leaves a trailing afterimage across his vision. His brain feels thick and alcohol heavy, like he's swimming in a sea of it.

"Jez—" 

"I wanna get you off," Jeremy says. The words come out slurred, but somehow James can understand them. Perhaps because he feels as out of control as Jeremy sounds. "Let me—" Jeremy says. "Let me—"

"Yes. God." Maybe he hadn't dreamt it the other night. Either way – he wants this. Sometimes it feels like he's forgotten what it was like not to want it.

Jeremy's hand slides down his chest and thumbs open his slacks. James is holding on to the back of his neck, keeping him close enough to kiss. "Jez... Oh, fuck." Jeremy's palm is sweaty and hot where it touches his cock, his fingers callused and a little rough. "Fuck," James says again, the word muffled against Jeremy's mouth. "Please. Oh—" Jeremy laughs and grips him tighter, wanks him slow and hard with a twist to his wrist as he pulls up. 

"You like that?" he asks, low and dirty.

"Yes," James groans. "God, your hands. Kiss me again." _Remember this,_ he tells himself. _Remember. Remember. This is real. This is happening._

Jeremy kisses him again, fucks James' mouth with his tongue until they're both gasping. "Close," James manages. "Close, god, I'm—"

"C'mon," Jeremy murmurs. "Come for me, James, give it to me—" and James comes so hard he nearly passes out. He slumps against the wall, dizzy and shaking, letting Jeremy carry some of his weight. Eventually he becomes aware that Jeremy is saying his name, running his hands up and down James' arms soothingly. 

"I'm all right," he manages after a moment. "I'm... Christ." 

Jeremy gives him a smug grin. "Blown your mind?"

James laughs. "A bit." An idea occurs to him. "Let me blow yours. Let me suck you." He expects a laugh – not the look of mingled desire and wariness on Jeremy's face. "I... I'd make it good for you, Jez, I promise," he says. It suddenly seems vitally important to make Jeremy aware of the fact that he's done this before. "I know what'm doing." He runs his thumb up the side of Jeremy's neck. 

Jeremy's eyes flutter shut, and when he opens them again there's something wild in his expression. "Yeah," he says. "God, yeah, I want that. Want your mouth on me."

James groans. "Sofa," he suggests. Drunk as they both are, it's probably not a great idea to do this with Jeremy standing up. 

"Yeah." 

The sofa seems miles away, but they get there eventually. Jeremy toes off his shoes and shoves his jeans and boxers down over his hips. James goes to his knees.

Jeremy's cock is thick and flushed, dripping precome from the tip. James wraps his hand around it, leans in to taste and then sucks him down. He's too drunk to be suave about this, and settles instead for being enthusiastic, sucking hard and fast. 

"Fuck," Jeremy breathes. "James." He puts his hands in James' hair, holding it awkwardly back from his face. James hums in approval, and Jeremy groans. James can see him biting down on his bottom lip. "Fuck, you're good at this."

James smirks around his mouthful and sucks harder. Jeremy's hips are moving in helpless little thrusts. "Not going to take long," he says, sounding strained. "James— Christ. I'm gonna come. Oh, god—" 

James keeps his eyes fixed on Jeremy's face, not wanting to miss a second. Jeremy closes his eyes when he comes, lips parted, pink-cheeked and gasping, and before it's even over James wants to see it again.

"Bloody hell," Jeremy says eventually. James just laughs tiredly. The burst of energy that accompanied his arousal has drained away, and he can't quite muster up the oomph to move, though he knows he should. 

He falls asleep with his head on Jeremy's thigh, and wakes in the morning stretched out on the sofa. Alone.


	2. Chapter 2

The third time it happens, they're drunk. Though he and Jeremy have seen each other twice in the week since that night, they haven't spoken about it at all. They'd had three back to back meetings with BBC executives, but Jeremy had come in almost late to the first one and left immediately after the last one. And then they'd seen each other again on Tuesday for a crew meeting about the upcoming race film, but every time it had looked like they might be alone together Jeremy had very hurriedly gone off with someone else.

James is pretty sure he's got the message. Whatever it was, that night (those two nights?), they aren't going to talk about it. He's briefly considered texting Jeremy, or calling him, but after picking up the phone three or four times he hasn't managed to do it. Partly because he really has no idea how to begin the conversation, and partly because, if he's honest, he's a little worried that trying to talk about it will just lead to Jeremy denying everything. Vehemently. And then James will wonder if he's losing his mind, and – it'll be messy, that's all. 

So instead he waits. 

On Friday they have dinner with Richard and Andy to talk about the upcoming trip to somewhere or other. James isn't sure how much they're actually accomplishing, because he spends most of the meal trying to figure out how to make Jeremy think it's his own idea to go home together afterwards (Pretend to injure himself and ask Jeremy to help him home? Suggest some sort of challenge involving drunk construction of airfix kits?), and anyway Jeremy keeps filling up everyone's glasses from the bottles of wine that somehow keep appearing on the end of the table. At one point James catches Richard giving Jeremy a wary look, and he spends a panicked five minutes thinking this means Richard knows everything before he realizes that it's more likely to have been related to the trip than anything else.

As it turns out, none of his bizarre plans are necessary, because when they get out on the street and James opens his mouth, Jeremy gets there first.

"Share a cab?" he asks casually.

"Sure," says James, trying not to blush.

They hail one and slide into the back. Jeremy's hand comes to rest on James' thigh and stays there all the way back to James' flat. For perhaps the first time ever, James is glad when the cab driver wants to make conversation, because it gives him something to think about other than the upcoming probability of Jeremy's big, rough fingers wrapped around his cock. 

By the time they pull up at the curb, James is achingly hard, his head swimming half from the touch and half from the wine. "Come in for a drink?" he offers Jeremy, mainly for the benefit of the cabbie. "I wanted to ask you about that—" His mind goes horribly blank. "Thing."

"Yeah, all right," Jeremy says. 

This time they manage to get as far as the bedroom before they start kissing, open-mouthed and hot. Jeremy's hands are on his arse, squeezing, pulling him close so they can rut against each other. 

"Jez... Fuck!" James can barely focus enough to kiss Jeremy properly. He sucks on Jeremy's bottom lip, groaning into his mouth. "On the bed," he says breathlessly, and they fall onto the duvet still clutching each other. Jeremy is a solid weight on top of him; the thought of being held down is unexpectedly arousing. James rolls his hips upwards, seeking and finding the hard length of Jeremy's cock. Jeremy makes a choked noise and then suddenly sits up, knees parting until he's sat up on his haunches straddling James' legs. 

"What—"

"I'm going to suck you," Jeremy announces bluntly.

"God, yes." James can feel his cock throb just at the thought of Jeremy's mouth on him. Jeremy's hands go to his belt, slipping the leather through the buckle and then unfastening the button and zip of his trousers. James lifts his hips just enough to wiggle free, kicking off his shoes and then trousers and boxers as Jeremy pulls them off him.

Jeremy slides down, pushing James' tee shirt up, wrapping his hand around James' cock and stroking him to full hardness. Then he leans down, dips his head and—

Stops. 

James is breathing hard, anticipating some tease, but when there's no movement after a long moment he lifts his head.

Jeremy looks – there's no other word for it – terrified. "I'm," he says. "I, er."

"Jez?"

"Just give me a bloody minute," Jeremy snaps.

James makes to sit up, but Jeremy pushes him back down and dips his head again, and James forgets every kind, careful thing he'd been planning to say. 

Jeremy's mouth is hot, slick with saliva. It's obvious from the first – if his earlier hesitation hadn't given it away already – that he hasn't done this before. The angle isn't quite right, for one, and he isn't paying nearly enough attention to what his teeth are doing. James doesn't much care, too busy having a moment of mental gibbering at the sight of big, man's man Jeremy Clarkson sucking his cock. It's a struggle not to just give himself over it, not to put his hands in Jeremy's hair and thrust up into that wonderful, slick heat.

The next bob is clearly too much at once and Jeremy chokes, pulling off to breathe heavily, licking spit and precome from his lips.

"Don't say a word," he pants.

"I'm not saying anything," says James fervently. 

Jeremy smirks and tries again. This time he's more cautious, tasting a little, slicking his tongue over the tip of James' cock and tracing the edge of his foreskin before sucking him in, just the head. James fists his hands in the sheets. " _Fuck_."

Jeremy's thumb is pressed against the underside of James' cock, rubbing up and down in shaky counterpoint to the hollow suck of his cheeks. Goosebumps break out all over James' arms and the back of his neck, hair standing on end. "Jez. Oh, god." It feels like a fever dream, like he's hot and cold all at once. James can't decide what's the most arousing thing – the sweat beading on Jeremy's forehead, the round O of his parted lips as James' cock pushes between them, the soft grunts he makes with each suck. He wishes he hadn't drunk quite so much wine; it had seemed like a fantastic idea when they were at dinner and he'd wanted to take the edge off his anxiety, but now that he's here and this is actually happening, he thinks it would be quite nice for it to happen without a lining of bubble wrap between his brain and everything else.

He fists his hands in the sheets. "Jez," he says again, and then, "Jeremy. Fuck. Harder." Jeremy looks up long enough to roll his eyes at this but he sucks harder, each pulse sending a shivering throb of pleasure through James' over-sensitized nerves. "Yeah," James says. "Like that, just like that. So good. You're so good." He can tell that he's babbling but can't quite bite the words back – blowjobs have always made him rather vocal and the influence of the wine means he's got less self-restraint than usual anyway. "That's it. So good, Jez. So fucking good—" He expects Jeremy to bristle at the praise but instead Jeremy's eyes flutter closed, his cheeks gone pink, and suddenly James is _there_ , right on the brink just from the thought of Jeremy's eager, sweet, virgin mouth. "Fuck—" he says, and then, "Going to—"

Jeremy sucks him once more, hard, and pulls off just in time for James to come all over his chin. His lips are puffy from sucking, half-parted in surprise, and now striped with James' come. James groans at the sight and feels another little aftershock of pleasure roll through him as he collapses back against the sheets. "Jesus Christ," he says breathily. Jeremy snorts.

"Told you I'd do it," he says. 

James reaches down and grabs him by the collar of his shirt, hauls him up and rolls them both over until he's straddling Jeremy's thighs. "Never doubted you," he says, and crushes their mouths together, licking at the come on Jeremy's lips and then his chin and neck until he's relatively clean but spit-soaked and gasping.

"James—" Jeremy says, and then, "kiss me, you bastard!" 

How can he resist? They kiss for a long moment, sloppy and obscene, and then James slides down the bed to return the favor.

When he wakes in the morning, the house is empty.


	3. Chapter 3

The fourth time it happens, Jeremy is drunk. James had invited him round for dinner, ostensibly to watch the new BBC documentary about WWI journalism, and though Jeremy had hesitated a bit at the invitation he'd said yes in the end.

They don't talk about it at dinner – James thinks that at this point either it will happen or it won't, and Jeremy's clearly the person in charge of that decision, so why bother? They have a nice, normal curry takeaway, and chat about nothing in particular, and then when Jeremy is in the loo, James very carefully pours the rest of the bottle down the sink. 

He makes sure he's seen topping up his glass from a fresh bottle when Jeremy comes back, makes sure to keep his shoulders loose as they sit on the sofa and talk and slide closer and closer to each other. They finish the second bottle and open another. They put on the documentary and pause it to argue and don't manage to hit play again. And either James is a better actor than he'd thought or the facade of drunkenness is enough, because mid-way through his rant about censorship, Jeremy leans over and kisses him.

James stops thinking about early 20th century war propaganda remarkably quickly. He slides back against the sofa cushions, pulling Jeremy with him. Jeremy's hand is hot where he cups James' face, positioning him just right for the deep, sensual kiss he seems to want. James has no objection; his cock is throbbing already just from the slow rasp of lips on skin, the taste of Jeremy's breath, the flicker of his tongue. He puts both hands on Jeremy's arse, fingertips pressing into worn denim. 

Jeremy breaks the kiss and tips James' head back so that he can latch onto his throat, licking a great stripe over the skin, sucking a little in the hollow just below his jaw for a moment. James half hopes there will be a mark there tomorrow but Jeremy pulls himself away before he's done nearly enough. He runs his hand down James' neck and then up again instead, big and strong and proprietary, and James shudders under the touch, arching up to press their bodies closer together. 

"Kiss me," he says, and Jeremy kisses him again, groaning, open-mouthed and slick. They're all but rutting against each other now, Jeremy grinding down and James rolling his hips up. The rough noise of their breathing hangs in the air. "Fuck," James says, and then, "Can I—" He worms a hand in between them, reaching for Jeremy's belt buckle. Jeremy groans and then levers himself up a little on one elbow, his knee barely balanced on the edge of the sofa cushion. 

"Better idea," he says. "Bed?"

James considers suggesting the floor instead, it being considerably closer, but they're neither of them getting any younger. "Bed," he agrees.

It takes Jeremy a while to actually move, as if he's too preoccupied with kissing James to have the attention span necessary for the act of standing up. Or maybe he's just too rat-arsed to manage it. Eventually they do stop kissing long enough to stumble down the hallway into the bedroom and out of their clothes. James flicks the bedside light on, then pushes Jeremy down on the bed; the feel of skin on skin sends a shiver all the way through him, top to toe. Jeremy's hands slide up his back, into his hair, and then they're kissing again, slow and deep. It's different like this than it had been the other night, sharper, clearer. James almost doesn't even want to come, wants to live inside the sweetness of Jeremy's kisses as long as he can hold on. Jeremy's eyes have fluttered closed, and James catches himself holding his breath, waiting for them to open again.

Of course, his cock has other ideas; he's so hard it feels like he could probably drill his way to the center of the earth without too much trouble. He shifts up onto his heels, knees planted on either side of Jeremy's hips. From this angle he can get both of their cocks into his hand at once, his grip made slick by the pulse of precome. 

" _Fuck_ ," Jeremy says, grabbing at James' hips. "Fuck, c'mon." 

James laughs, though it comes out mainly as a groan. Jeremy's eyes are open again; James realizes that he'd missed the moment entirely, too preoccupied with watching what his hand is doing and taking in every detail of the way Jeremy's cock looks, big and blunt and flushed. "Like that?" he says, beginning to wank them both off together with slow, thorough strokes. 

"Yes. Oh god, James—" It's breathy, a little bit slurred, but the sound of his name from Jeremy's mouth does something deeply complicated to James' insides.

"Yeah," he says, twisting his wrist on the upstroke and then going down again, achingly slow. "Yeah."

They don't say much after that. Jeremy is trembling underneath him, arching up into each stroke, and his fingers are digging hard into James' hips. James braces his free hand on the bed and gives himself over to the feel of it, the roughness of his fingers and the smooth heat of Jeremy's cock. Sweat collects in the divot of his spine, dripping down in slow, meandering tendrils. He wants Jeremy's fingers there, spreading him open, but next time, next time. It's seeming increasingly likely that there will actually be a next time.

When he comes it's a slow burn, pushing outward from that place behind his navel until he's coming in thick spurts. His whole body feels wobbly, and he can barely keep himself balanced enough to finish jerking Jeremy off. Afterwards, James flops onto his back to stare at the ceiling. The sweat begins to prickle off of his skin. He can hear Jeremy breathing hard beside him.

James wakes a few hours later to the sound of the shower. When he looks at the clock on the bedside table he can see that it's only just gone midnight. He thinks about getting up, about slipping into the shower stall and putting his arms around Jeremy's waist, feeling all that wet skin, about finding just the right thing to murmur in Jeremy's ear to get him to come back to bed.

He thinks about just waiting for Jeremy to come out and saying something to him then – something complimentary, something demanding, maybe just something crude. Anything to keep him from leaving.

The shower turns off. After another few minutes the light under the bathroom door goes out. The door clicks open. James closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

After that, James stops counting. Over the next five months he begins to catalog the rules of this strange dance they seem to be doing with each other. Always at his flat, not at Jeremy's and _definitely_ not on location, which means a frustrating few weeks when they're filming in Australia but which James concedes is probably a sensible precaution against someone else finding out. No leaving marks, not even below the collar, which, ditto.

No talking about it, not when it seems inevitable and not even when he can't quite figure out whether he's inviting Jeremy over just for dinner or for dinner and drinks and sex. No cuddling after – no sharing the bed just to sleep, no waking up with Jeremy's warm arm thrown over him or their hairy shins pressed up against each other.

James catalogs the other things, too – the things he likes best. Jeremy's mouth on his neck, hot and spit-slick. The long stretch of Jeremy's back beneath James' palms, and the curve of his arse. Jeremy's fingers inside him. Once, memorably, he sits Jeremy back against the headboard and fucks himself on Jeremy's cock for what feels like hours, and though his back aches for a week afterwards, the look of fever-bright awe in Jeremy's eyes is everything James could have hoped for.

The rest of the time they go on as if nothing has changed. They film races and write the script for the next series and get on with their lives. Which is good, James thinks. It's really good. It's everything he's ever wanted.

Except...

They don't touch in public anymore, except on camera when it doesn't really count. They stop spending time together just the two of them – with Richard yes, or Richard and Andy, or alone with a bottle of wine as a prelude to sex, but not just to watch old films on a Saturday afternoon or play darts or any of the other things they used to do. 

Maybe it's just that they're both trying too hard to be discreet, James thinks. On the whole, he's rather glad that Jeremy is so much better at keeping this secret than he might have imagined. It's not as if he wants to end up accidentally baring his private life to the public eye. 

Or maybe it's just that this is what it's like, having a long-term thing with a man. James hasn't done that before. Sex yes, but never more than a few times with the same person and never with someone he had to work with. He'd always tried to keep the two halves of his life in different little boxes, conceptually, and it's worked well up to now. Maybe melding the two just means he'll have to take a little less of each. Which would be all right, wouldn't it, if it means he gets to have both?

\-----

On a Saturday evening in mid-November, James opens the door to the sight of Jeremy with a proffered bottle of wine. They do a little maneuvering – James trying to take the bottle and Jeremy's coat at the same time, fumbling the coat and nearly dropping it – but eventually the wine makes its way to the hall table and the coat to the hall closet. When James turns back, still half-thinking about the pasta that might or might not be about to boil over in the kitchen, Jeremy is so close that James finds himself leaning in for a kiss before he even realizes he's doing it. He can see the crinkled lines at the corners of Jeremy's mouth, the dark shadow of stubble sprawled across his jaw, and it's almost as if he can already taste them underneath his tongue.

Jeremy jumps back like he's been stung. 

For one horrible moment everything hangs between them. James stops breathing. 

But when Jeremy opens his mouth, what comes out is nothing like what James expects. "So, are we once again attempting to eat your so-called cooking, or have you given in and bought us some actual food?"

"There's nothing wrong with my cooking," James says, completely on auto-pilot, and then, "Shit, the pasta." He hurries back into the kitchen, but luckily the pot hasn't quite boiled over. Between draining the pasta and dishing up everything he's too busy to think about anything else, though he is vaguely aware of Jeremy getting beer from the fridge, the sound of the television turning on. When James comes out with the plates, Jeremy is just putting the DVD into the player.

"Looking forward to this one," Jeremy says, of the film they've agreed on. "Don't know how I managed to miss seeing it first time round."

"It's good," James agrees, setting down the plates. "Though some of the people in it use big words so let me know if you get confused." 

Jeremy kicks him in the ankle, but lightly. "Git."

They start the film. James is careful to keep to his end of the sofa at first, but that's normal enough. He likes his space. Jeremy invades it eventually, laughing, slithering drunk against James' side and that's normal, too. It's just what they do.

At some point Jeremy wanders into the kitchen and brings back two fresh bottles of beer. The one he hands to James is cold, just barely beginning to fog on the outside of the glass. James drinks it, and the one after that, and the one after that. The night begins to blur into itself. The warm length of Jeremy's thigh against his own. The murmur of the television, turned down when the film finished and then neglected entirely. 

Jeremy's mouth on his, the sour taste of beer and the sweetness of the tomato in the sauce. Jeremy's hand on the back of his neck. His own mouth parted against the sharp curve of Jeremy's jaw. The prickle of stubble against his lips, the taste of sweat. Kissing. Biting – harder than he'd meant to, and he drags himself away with a wrench. Sliding down. Skin stretched taut over bone, heated with exertion. The carpeted floor under his knees. The smell of Jeremy's cock and the trembling of his thighs as James sucks one of his testicles into his mouth. The way Jeremy's mouth hangs open a little as he watches. "James—" The way his voice shakes. 

James shuts his eyes. He's here and Jeremy's here and he can barely put one thought in front of the next, so how can he be thinking about anything else? But he _is_ thinking about it— about that moment. About that look in Jeremy's eyes as he'd hurriedly pulled away. About his shoulders gone flat and rigid and distant. So different from the lust-soaked ease of him now, the curl of his spine against the sofa cushions.

He shoves the thought away and puts his mouth on Jeremy's cock. The sweet sound of Jeremy's groan sends a sizzle of desire over James' skin. "Oh," Jeremy says, and, "yes, yeah, fuck—" His flailing foot kicks the coffee table and half the collection of beer bottles goes clattering across the floor. James forces himself not to care, just drops his head and takes Jeremy's cock so deep he can barely breathe. The stretch of it is freeing, like the only thing that exists in that moment is the pounding of blood in his ears, the burn of his lungs as he holds position for a half-second longer than he should. When he pulls back, gasping a little, he can see that Jeremy's hands are clenched on the edge of the sofa, white at the knuckles. He wants to kiss them, wants to press his mouth chastely to each one in turn.

Instead he braces one elbow against Jeremy's knee and breathes for a long moment before going down again, not quite as deep. He's still thinking about it – about that horrible flinch. _You startled him, that's all it was,_ he tells himself. _He wasn't expecting a kiss, not then, but only because you haven't done it before. Maybe he thinks it's you that's wary._ It's certainly true that Jeremy is anything but hesitant now, is loose-limbed and babbling eager praise for James' mouth. 

"James— oh, fuck. So bloody good."

The buzz of alcohol makes it impossible to focus, impossible to keep his mind from circling back and circling back. He lets the head of Jeremy's cock rub against his tongue, finds the vein on the underside that's beginning to be familiar. Jeremy is mostly wordless now, his breaths half gasp and half groan. James slides a hand up Jeremy's thigh, rubs a fingertip at the base of Jeremy's cock and then slides it back and back. They haven't done this, either. He hasn't dared suggest it. But he's reckless now.

Jeremy is biting his bottom lip, his eyes gone wide. The tip of James' finger skates over soft, crinkled skin. Something flutters hotly in his stomach. He wants to be the one to give Jeremy this, wants to be the one to take it. Wants to own this moment just for himself.

And Jeremy isn't saying no.

He circles the edges of Jeremy's hole once, twice. Keeps on sucking him. Jeremy's hips keep shifting, little helpless jerks of movement to match each quick, sharp suck. "James—"

James pushes in, just enough to give Jeremy a taste of it. 

"God, James. _James_."

The desperation in his voice sends a hot thrill racing through James' stomach and he groans, tilts his head back, takes Jeremy deeper as he crooks his finger to find just the right spot. 

"Oh, _god_." Jeremy is rocking back and forth against him now, working James' finger against his prostate. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh, James, fuck—" 

_Yeah,_ James thinks, _yes, this, give me this,_ and he keeps his eyes open as Jeremy comes with a shout.


	5. Chapter 5

When James wakes (alone, naturally), he's hungover and uneasy. His mouth stays dry all morning despite drinking a couple of glasses of water and enough coffee to drown a small horse, and his eyeballs feel almost greasy somehow. A hot shower doesn't help. He tries to write a little, but gives it up as a bad job after a half hour and does all his laundry instead, empties the dishwasher, sorts through the pile of mail that's been accumulating on the table inside the front door. It all makes him feel very virtuous but doesn't quite manage to stop the queasiness that's growing in the pit of his stomach.

It's nearing three in the afternoon when the doorbell rings. James goes to the door, a little wary – the last time it had been a very earnest young man with a narrow tie who had wanted to talk about his relationship with Our-Lord-And-Savior-Jesus-Christ and also (upon realizing who James was) about the new Ferrari – but when he looks through the peephole, what he sees is a face pressed almost right up against the door, wide eyes and a manic grin. James has seen this before, and he doesn't have any trouble at all recognizing the sight of Jeremy Clarkson being completely off his tit.

James takes a deep breath and opens the door. He has to put out a hand rapidly to brace Jeremy's shoulder as he staggers. Over Jeremy's head he can see a cab pulling away. "May!" Jeremy says, too loudly. James steps back and hauls him inside, kicks the door shut behind him and then finds himself backed against the wall by Jeremy, who is big and warm and seems to have grown an extra pair of hands, given how many parts of James are being groped right now. Jeremy's mouth is on his, sloppy and wet with a determined tongue. He tastes of scotch.

James shoves him away before he's even conscious of doing it. Jeremy's back hits the opposite wall of the hallway with a thunk that makes the overhead light fixture rattle.

"Oi!" Jeremy says. He's got his bottom lip out, pouting in a way that James has found endearing in the past but which right now seems suddenly, overwhelmingly repulsive. "C'mon, James, you can't tell me you've got something better to do on a Sunday afternoon. What were you planning to do, alphabetize your pants?" He pushes off the wall and runs a hand down James' chest. "I want you to fuck me," he says, in a low voice that's obviously intended to be seductive. 

"Jeremy—"

"Want you to put your cock in me. C'mon, James. You want to."

Right now James can't think of anything he wants to do less. He's tired, surprised – and he hates being surprised – and hungover, and a whole hell of a lot of things that seemed perfectly fine in the dim light of a post-pub midnight suddenly seem decidedly not fine in the too-bright light of three o'clock in the afternoon. Maybe this is a spectacularly effective demonstration of why it's never a good idea to be the only sober one at the party, but in fairness to himself it's a party of two and Jeremy _has_ just turned up without warning.

He bats Jeremy's hand away. "Jez." He opens his mouth, shuts it again as the realization washes through him. Every kiss they've ever had, he could taste the alcohol on Jeremy's tongue. Maybe that ought not to bother him. He likes to drink, likes a beer or two and likes the buzz that he gets from wine or whiskey, likes the faint looseness that he gets when he's three sheets to the wind, when everything is easier. He's no uptight teetotaler. But he doesn't want it all the time. Doesn't need it, to get himself through. 

He wants Jeremy. But he doesn't want to be a dirty secret that Jeremy is keeping from himself. 

James takes a deep breath. "What are we doing here?" he asks, trying to keep his voice even. "You and me, Jeremy, what—"

"Well, I _thought_ we were going to fuck," Jeremy says petulantly. "But apparently we're going to talk about our feelings like teenage girls instead." 

"For god's sake, Jeremy," says James. "Can you not even— no, no, of course you can't." He suddenly feels exhausted, drained of whatever energy he might have possessed. "Just go away," he says. "Just... Just go, Jez."

Jeremy stares at him. "Go? James..."

They can work it out later. Have a nice, healthy shouting match and get it all out into the open and then go on, like they always do. But he can't face that right now. "Just go," he says again.

"Can't," Jeremy says, with an obvious burst of sudden cunning. "I'm drunk, James. Not safe to drive." He nods sanctimoniously. "You'll have to let me stay."

James barks out a laugh. "You came in a cab," he says flatly. "So you most certainly can leave in one."

Jeremy's face falls, and for a moment he looks so despondent that James almost relents, almost tells him he can sleep it off on the sofa if he wants to stay so badly. But if he lets Jeremy sleep on the sofa, James knows he isn't going to stay there. So he hardens his heart, takes all the parts of himself that are vulnerable to that look on Jeremy's face and resolutely locks them away. "Get out," he says. He steps past Jeremy and pulls open the door. 

Jeremy gives him an incredulous look, but when James doesn't change expression he finally sighs. "All right, all right! No idea what's got your panties all in a wad, but I'm going." It only takes him two steps to reach the front stoop.

The back of his head looks strangely forlorn, and a tiny part of James thaws despite his best efforts. "Look, Jez," he says. "Come by when you're sober. All right?" Before Jeremy can reply, James shuts the door. He can hear Jeremy sputtering on the other side of it. 

He makes it all the way back into the sitting room before he has to sit down and put his head in his hands.


	6. Chapter 6

Jeremy doesn't come back. Doesn't call, doesn't text. Doesn't even tweet him, which James hates himself for noticing. They won't be filming anything together for another month and a half and so there's nothing to bring them coincidentally together, nothing to force a confrontation.

So they just don't speak. James picks up the phone once, twice, maybe twenty times that first day and five or six times a day the week after that, and then puts it back down again almost immediately. What's to say? This has always been Jeremy's thing to own, to give James or not give him, and James calling him up for an awkward conversation about it isn't going to move things to a resolution any more swiftly. Well, perhaps if James apologized, it might.

But he isn't bloody well going to apologize.

Instead he calls up a few of his other mates, the ones that aren't connected with Top Gear at all – Colin and Dave and Sim – and they have a nice couple of Thursday evenings in James' local pub talking about anything but cars. Sim tells stories about some robotics he's been working on and the time the Roomba he'd armed with a water gun ended up chasing him through the house. Colin moans about his neighbor who seems convinced that someone is going around in the middle of the night moving his fence six inches in from the property line. Dave has three children and lives in a world of school talent shows and swears that if he hears one more Disney song he's going to go on a murderous rampage.

They're all good company, all good mates. But he misses Jeremy nonetheless. Misses the conversation, misses that spark of connection that they'd always had, even before they started shagging, even when they fought. Misses the sex.

God, he misses the sex. The way Jeremy gasped when James touched him, the rapid stutter of his heartbeat beneath the skin when James kissed his neck. The whine in the back of his throat when James worried a nipple between his teeth. The way his hands were rough and the insides of his thighs were soft and smooth. His fingers stretching James open, teasing until he's stretched wide and begging for it, and then his cock hot and solid.

James supposes he ought to just have a wank and get it over with, but every time he starts picturing Jeremy's eager face he ends up feeling sick and unhappy. So instead when he lies in bed at night he thinks careful thoughts of taking apart motorcycle engines until he falls asleep. 

\-----

A week goes by, and then two. Jeremy doesn't call. James works idly on proposals for a couple of solo projects, some more Man Lab scripts that will have to be finalized in the next month. He's hardly at a loss for things to keep him occupied, but all his other work seems oddly uninteresting at the moment. He wants to be back in the thick of Top Gear where loud and fast and completely rubbish are the order of the day. That's hardly a new impulse – he's often felt like that, when they were on a break from filming – but given the circumstances he's beginning to think that maybe the desire is more about Jeremy than he'd thought.

The second Thursday night, after the pub when he and Colin are standing at the curb waiting for another cab to come by, James opens his mouth to tell him all about it, then shuts it again. He's sort of tentatively out to Colin, having once got pissed and used a pronoun he hadn't intended to use, but Colin is either remarkably discreet or, more likely, has forgotten all about it. Either way, it would be madness to bring it up now. Especially because Colin's in the industry, too.

"What?" Colin says, having no doubt correctly judged that this is James choosing his moment and then un-choosing it just as quickly. 

"Nothing," James says, with a shake of his head. But he wants to tell someone, even if he isn't sure why. In the end, what he says is, "Just. Do you ever get the feeling that you're having a completely different conversation than someone else? Even though you're both right there?"

Colin looks at him for a moment. "You mean other than right now?"

James huffs out a rueful laugh. "Yeah. Apart from that." He makes a 'humor me' gesture that he knows Colin's well and truly familiar with.

"Yeah," Colin says. "All the fucking time, mate. It's called dealing with human beings."

"How do you— how do you get them back to where you're on the same page?"

"Use small words?" Colin suggests with a laugh. "Honestly, though? Don't assume. Just tell him what you want."

_Ah,_ James thinks. Clearly Colin hasn't actually forgotten all about the pronoun thing. James runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I should do that," he says, and then, "Thanks. You know."

Colin claps him on the shoulder. "Yeah."

Weirdly, telling Colin even this much seems to have loosened something that James hadn't known was stretched tight. He can do this. He can talk to Jeremy, get things sorted out. It'll be all right. "Thanks," he says again.

A minicab squeals to a stop at the curb. James and Colin do the instinctive maneuver of do-you-want-this-one-no-you-go-ahead and Colin pulls the door open. "Good luck, mate," he says, and gets in. James watches the cab drive off and wishes that everything were as easy as this.

\-----

The next morning he picks up his phone and, determined not to overthink it, quickly texts Jeremy. 'Can we talk?'

When there's no reply by evening, he tries again. 'Are you around this weekend? I want to talk to you.'

He lets it go all day Saturday, then sends another one on Sunday. 'Seriously, Jeremy, we need to talk. Call me.'

Still no response. By Monday he's beginning to get a little worried that something's actually wrong, so he calls Jeremy and leaves a voicemail of 'At least tell me you're not dead in a ditch somewhere, all right?' He doesn't get a reply to that, either, but Jeremy tweets a couple of things about the football, which is enough to confirm he's still breathing and able to use his thumbs.

A week passes with no response. James leaves a couple more voicemails and a few more texts, but he's too worried about phone hacking to say anything too revealing, so they all end up being variations on 'I want to talk to you. Call me, you idiot.' Eventually he begins to think that even _that_ would be suspicious, to a newspaper, so he stops leaving messages entirely. 

He can't help but think that maybe he's ruined it all. Usually they'd just shout at each other, spend a few days apart, then push past it and go back to normal. But Jeremy doesn't seem to even want to get as far as the shouting. Maybe he's decided James isn't worth the effort. Maybe whatever this is, it's over before it really began. 

Another week passes with no response, and then another. By now it's almost Christmas, and he still hasn't heard another word from Jeremy besides the occasional thing that he can see online. He keeps his phone on the bedside table at night, the volume turned up in case he gets a late night call, and he keeps the porch light on, too – but both the phone and the doorbell resolutely refuse to ring.

\-----

On Christmas Eve he drives up to his parents' place to spend a couple of days. The house is full up with his siblings and their partners and kids. It's a joy to have them all together, like it is every year, but this year for the first time it feels as though something isn't quite right.

He misses Jeremy fiercely. Their relationship up to now hasn't exactly been the 'spending Christmas together' type, and even if they get things figured out he can't imagine how they'd manage to keep it discreet, not with the kids around. But James wants him there. He tells himself it's just that he wants someone by his side. Someone to share jokes with, someone to warn about the potency of his mum's eggnog. Someone to sling an arm across his shoulders as they sit together on the sofa and watch some dreadful holiday film. He tells himself that it wouldn't need to be Jeremy. Just someone.

Except that when he tries to picture it, it's always Jeremy in his imagination, singing carols off key. Always Jeremy with gingerbread crumbs on his jumper and whipped cream at the corners of his mouth. Always Jeremy handing out presents on Christmas morning and delighting to see the children's faces.

Christmas Day, after dinner, it hits him all at once. His nephews are putting together something Lego in one corner of the sitting room; his niece is reading, curled up in the armchair. He can hear his mum and brother in the kitchen, doing something with pie. His dad is probably out in the shed, even cold as it is, and the others of the family are upstairs, napping a little before dessert.

On the stereo, David Bowie is singing 'Little Drummer Boy' with Bing Crosby, and when they get to 'Peace on Earth, can it be?' James sets his eggnog down on the coffee table abruptly, then gets up and slings on his coat. 

When the back door shuts, the sound of singing fades to a distant hum. He can see his breath in the multicolored glow of the Christmas lights strung across the edge of the roof. A thin layer of frost crunches underneath his feet. He hasn't bothered with gloves so the door handle of the shed is shockingly cold, but inside his dad has the space heater running and it's warm enough. 

His dad looks up when he comes in, but turns his attention back to the innards of the up-turned lawn mower without saying anything. James watches him for a while, trying not to think about Jeremy. Trying not to think.

Eventually his dadclears his throat, but instead of whatever question James might be expecting, all he says is, "Socket, size sixteen." James finds it in the drawer, passes it over.

They works in silence, but for the occasional request for this tool or the other. After an hour, his dad wipes his hands on a rag and says, "Pie'll be ready."

"Yeah."

They shut off the lights in the shed, lock up, walk back across the yard. In the house, the pie is just coming out of the oven. There is fresh whipped cream. James makes himself smile, take a slice of pie, admire the Lego creation in the sitting room, but inside he feels hollowed out, empty.

That night, lying in the guest bed, he calls Jeremy one more time. When the voicemail message beeps, all he says is, "Merry Christmas, Jez," and then hangs up.


	7. Chapter 7

It's January, a week from the first of the studio days, when he gets an urgent call from Andy.

"Please tell me you're not busy this week."

"Hang on." James flips through his calendar. There are a couple of meetings, but nothing that can't be moved. And if it's a choice between meetings with BBC executives or a last minute Top Gear shoot, he doesn't even really have to think about it. "You're in luck. I can be at your disposal until next week, at which point I am scheduled to be at your disposal in any case."

"Thank fuck," Andy says. "We're short a piece, for reasons that really don't bear getting into, so I'm sending you three idiots to Belgium. Yes, Belgium, and you can shut up about it."

James, who had been entertaining mixed feelings about the words 'you three idiots' and therefore hadn't been about to say anything in particular about Belgium, just says, "Aye aye, Captain Wilman."

"I'll send someone to pick you up tomorrow eight-ish," Andy says, ignoring the sarcasm. "Pack for the whole week, though I have no idea how long this will take. The three of you will just have to cock about until you've got enough film to keep me from being thrown to the wolves." 

_Oh, god,_ James thinks, and then, _Well, I suppose it'll give Jez and I a chance to sort ourselves out, if nothing else. We'll have to, if it takes that long._ "All right," he says. "What are we going to be driving?"

"Don't know yet," Andy says. "Depends on what I can get. You'll know when you get there."

_Great._ James had rather hoped to have car research to occupy himself with until tomorrow, but he's just going to have to make do with stewing about Jeremy instead. As if he hasn't done enough of that.

"I've got to go," says Andy. "Thanks for being flexible – Jez said he thought you'd be booked up, so I really do appreciate it. See you at the airport in the morning."

He hangs up before James can say anything else.

_Thought I'd be too busy, did he?_ James thinks, with a bitter half-laugh. _Right._ Maybe things really are fucked beyond repair between them. Maybe this is the gentle beginnings of some sort of campaign to kick James off the show for good. He doesn't like to think Jeremy would do something like that. Either way, what can he do about it? Nothing but keep on, he supposes, and make it clear that he isn't going anywhere no matter what a cock Jeremy is.

He sighs, then flips through his contacts and begins the tedious process of rescheduling.

\-----

In the morning he's tired, gritty-eyed, thankful that the BBC driver doesn't seem inclined to chat. James leans his head against the window and lets the purr of the engine lull him into something that's more meditative emptiness than an actual doze. When they reach the airport he startles back into full wakefulness, mouth dry and eyes even grittier, but he feels a little better, and a splash of cold water across his face in the men's room is enough to clear some of the cobwebs from his thoughts.

He doesn't know what to expect in seeing Jeremy. Will he be an arse? Will he just refuse to speak to James entirely? It's going to make the trip to Belgium a bit difficult if so. 

James recognizes the back of Jeremy's head across the terminal and closes his eyes briefly against the wash of fondness and irritation and fear that follows. If only he could think of the right thing to say. 

It's a moot point, because when he gets closer he can see that Jeremy isn't alone. Richard is there, and Andy and Iain and Kiff, so when Jeremy does speak to him for the first time in a month and a half, it's only to say, "Morning, May," in a completely nonchalant manner. James feels vaguely disappointed at the lack of shouting.

They check in, go through security. Waiting in line, Jeremy immediately starts talking to Andy, leaving James and Richard to stare balefully at each other and agree (by means of eyebrow gestures) that it's too early to attempt any sort of conversation. After security they hole up in the nearest executive lounge, a luxury that James is endlessly grateful to the BBC for supplying. Jeremy keeps talking with Andy, though it's less a chat and more a monologue punctuated by Andy's occasional grunts of agreement or disagreement. Richard picks one of the sofas and stretches out on it with his eyes closed. James eyes Jeremy, then decides discretion is the better part of valor and pulls out the crossword.

Eventually the flight is called and they make their way to the gate. On the plane, Jeremy and Richard are sat together, with James and Andy across the aisle. James thinks about protesting, but decides he's too tired to argue, and anyway it's a short flight. They'll have plenty of time when they get where they're going. 

When they get off the plane it's a long wait in baggage claim for the equipment, then a half hour van ride to a car park in the center of Brussels where three rather nice supercars are waiting for them. Someone hands them each a sandwich. Someone else disappears with their bags. The cameras roll.

They cock about all afternoon. Eventually they end up with a vague through-line for the segment, about trying to decide which part of the city each of the cars fits best. It's not the most brilliant theme, but it'll do. 

The cars are rather wonderful and the weather is good. The crew seems determined not to grumble too much about the suddenness of the call out. Richard spends a good portion of the afternoon blathering on about the meaning of the word 'versatile.' All of Jeremy's jibes stay clearly on the right side of the line that he has, in the past, found an endless number of ways to cross. 

James forgets himself long enough to have fun, some of the time, but it doesn't stick. He keeps circling back to the feeling of vague foreboding that sits like an incipient headache in the back of his skull. Maybe they're both good enough actors to pretend that nothing's changed, but that's not the same as it actually being true that nothing's changed. If they can't even be friends, it's going to come out eventually. 

More than that, James admits, if they can't even be friends, he's not sure how he'll bear it. 

\-----

Andy waits until the ride up to the hotel lobby from the car park to inform them that since this is a last minute trip, they've had a devil of a time finding a place for everyone to stay and, as a consequence, they're all going to be bunked double. Richard groans loudly and theatrically. Jeremy says nothing. James knows then, without a shadow of a doubt, who he's ended up with.

_Well, I suppose that's good,_ he thinks tentatively. _I mean, we'll have a ready made excuse to be alone together, and we can hash it out without worrying that anyone else is listening in. Right?_

In the lobby there's a bit of a scrum as Andy hands out the keys. By the time James gets his hands on his, Jeremy has disappeared, likely as not for a smoke. James takes the lift up, turns left, hits a dead end without finding the correct room, turns around with a sigh and makes his way back along the hall until he finds the right one at pretty much the opposite end of the building.

He puts the electronic key into the lock, waits for it to click and then flash green. He shoulders the door open, then pulls himself up short at the sight of Jeremy half bent over his bag, rifling through it for something or other. He can't help letting his gaze travel up the long line of Jeremy's legs and over the curve of his arse, appreciating the view. 

Jeremy turns his head and doesn't seem at all taken aback to see James in the doorway. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute," he says. 

James shuts the door behind him. Now that they're actually alone together, he has no idea how to start this conversation. He takes a deep breath. "Jeremy..."

Jeremy zips the bag shut and straightens up with a pack of cigarettes in his hand. "Knew these were in there somewhere. One of these days I'm going to get one of those books, you know, for how to travel like an executive, only when I do it I'll probably get bored halfway through turning my trousers into miniature Swiss rolls."

"Mmm," James says. "Jeremy..."

"And then it'll be just as much of a mess as ever, except it'll be a rolled up mess," Jeremy says. "D'you know, I think I'm going to have to ration these." The hand with the cigarette packet makes an extravagant gesture in the air. James blinks at the sudden change of topic. "Pretty sure you can't actually get them here. I'm sure you can get something that's basically the same, I've just absolutely no idea which one it would be. Even if I did, I probably couldn't pronounce it well enough to buy it in a shop. There ought to be some sort of system. Then you could just always ask for the blue ones or whatever."

"Mmm," James says again, too flustered to manage anything more coherent. "Jez, I wanted—"

"I think today's ration will stretch to one now, though, thankfully," Jeremy says breezily. "See you at dinner." He pushes past James to the door. James thinks about grabbing for him, but second-guesses himself at the last moment and ends up just twitching awkwardly. Jeremy goes out. The door slams shut behind him.

"That went well," James says to the empty hotel room.

\-----

Dinner is a raucous clatter of voices, the clash of silverware on plates. James ends up at the opposite end of the table from Jeremy, so he can only catch glimpses of him chattering with Andy and drinking wine and giving every impression of enjoying himself immensely. After that, in the bar, he watches Jeremy go from mildly tipsy to absolutely shit-faced over the course of an hour and a half. Jeremy is all smiles and jokes, slinging an arm over Andy's shoulders as they stand waiting for another whiskey, elbowing Kiff at the punchline of some story that James decides he doesn't really want to hear. Jeremy is also pink in the cheeks, visibly staggering when he turns too quickly and fumble-fingered with his wallet.

James stays in his seat at one of the high-topped tables and nurses his beer, trying to talk himself out of doing something stupid. He chats a little with Richard and Iain and then calls it an early night as soon as he thinks it's reasonable to excuse himself. He carefully doesn't catch Jeremy's eye when he leaves.

The hotel room is shockingly quiet after the noise of the crowded bar. James brushes his teeth, strips down to boxers and then, after a moment of hesitation, pulls on a worn tee shirt before lying down on the side of the bed furthest from the door. He reads for a while, then turns off the light and tries to sleep. It's difficult. There is something hard and tight clenched behind his ribs, something it feels like he's clinging onto desperately and can't make himself let go.

It can't be too much after that when he hears the door lock whir and click open. Jeremy staggers in, his footfalls heavy and clumsy. He trips over something in the dark, sets himself to giggling. James pinches his lips together and says nothing, his eyes open. There is enough light that he can make out the shape of the window and curtains, the box of the air conditioning unit. Behind him there is the prolonged rustle of Jeremy stripping off his clothes.

The bed dips as Jeremy slides between the sheets.

"James?" he whispers. James doesn't say anything. Jeremy puts a hand on James' waist, then slings his arm over and cuddles up against him like they're an old married couple. 

James hears himself say, "If you touch me again, I will kill you in your sleep."

Jeremy snatches his arm away sharply. 

_What the hell did you say that for?_ James thinks, squeezing his eyes shut, but it's rhetorical. Right now he can't imagine anything he wants less than Jeremy touching him. _Fuck._

"James—" Jeremy sputters indignantly, but he can't seem to get any further than that. "James— James. Jaaaaaames." He sounds rather depressingly like a six year old in a candy shop. A _drunk_ six year old. Eventually he seems to run out of energy even for that, and the last repetition of James' name trails off into a snort, and then silence. 

James lies there for a long time, waiting for something else – waiting for an insult, waiting for a grope, waiting for some excuse to get up and leave – but it never comes, and eventually he falls asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time he wakes up, Jeremy is gone. _Nothing new there,_ James thinks bitterly. He rolls over, contemplates the empty half of the bed for a long moment and then abruptly punches the pillow, a violent impulse that leaves him as quickly as it had come. He slumps down, resting his forehead against the sheet. _Fuck. Now what?_ If only Jeremy hadn't been off his sodding head last night, they could have hashed it out... couldn't they?

But he suspects that wanting Jeremy sober is a bit like wanting the sky to stop being blue. He can wish all he likes, but he isn't going to get it. Maybe he'd better start getting used to that.

He shoves back the covers. 

Breakfast is a tense affair. When he comes into the hotel restaurant, almost everyone is there already. Jeremy greets him with a casual, "Morning," but James ignores him completely in favor of catching the waiter's eye. He doesn't feel much like eating, but forces down eggs and toast anyway, knowing he'll need his strength for pretending everything is fine.

Conversation carries on around him. Jeremy doesn't speak much, either – James can see the tense lines of a hangover-induced headache in between Jeremy's eyebrows, but for once he's not inclined to be sympathetic. In fact, he takes a grim sort of satisfaction in making sure to scrape his knife and fork against the plate as much as possible, until Jeremy visibly winces at the noise and shoves his chair back from the table.

"I'm going for a smoke," he announces. "And after that, we might as well attempt to accomplish something."

James rolls his eyes and doesn't bother replying.

In another half hour they're on the road again, with cameras rolling. Jeremy immediately dives into an elaborate monologue about his Lamborghini, with particular reference to how it both is and is not like Kiera Knightly. James grinds his teeth and tries to tune it out – he ought to be embarking on some rambles of his own just to fill up time – but it's an immense effort of will to keep his voice light when all he can think of is how much he wants to bash Jeremy's face in. Or scream. Or just anything, really – anything just to get past Jeremy's ever-present veneer of bloke-ish-ness and cocking about to something honest underneath. Even if it's horrible. Even if it's "ow, stop hitting me!"

Because he's beginning to realize that it's not just the drinking that's the problem. Not just that it makes James feel shameful and dirty, like Jeremy won't get close to him without the alcoholic equivalent of four or five hazmat suits worn one on top of the next. 

It's the morning after, and the next day, and the next. It's Jeremy like this – grinning, matey, telling terrible jokes and laughing at the groans of his audience, charming everyone he comes into contact with even down to the waitress at the little restaurant where they stop for lunch – and knowing that if this is the face he wears when it's all going to shit underneath, then maybe it's never been anything else. Maybe it's all just been play-acting, all the way back to the first time they'd run into each other at some dreadfully early nineties car show.

The thing is, if he's honest with himself, he knows there's more to Jeremy than this. He's seen it time and time again in all sorts of un-dramatic ways – the way Jeremy is generous to a fault, the way he keeps his promises. The rapport he has with small children and dogs. The moment after Richard's accident when James had found him being quietly un-manly in the car park. 

The way Jeremy had looked at him sometimes, these past few months when they were sleeping together. The way he'd kissed James so sweetly. The way he'd done things with James that he'd plainly never done with anyone else.

It just feels unbearable to have that part of Jeremy only offered when he's rat-arsed. Like Jeremy has to trick himself into showing that part of himself.

Like he doesn't trust James with it, when he's sober. Maybe that's the thought that hurts most.

James makes a valiant effort to do some play-acting of his own, mindful of the crew and Richard and the fact that they really don't have much time to get this all on film before they have to be back to record the studio material, but as the day winds on, it's more and more difficult to keep himself from snapping at everyone. He knows he's betraying himself with every clipped sentence but somehow he can't quite catch the words before they come out.

By the time they stop for dinner at a restaurant down the street from the hotel, it isn't just Jeremy who is giving James a wide berth. James doesn't even mind it, since it gives him plenty of time to brood without anyone trying to do something stupid like jolly him out of his black mood. In the restaurant, when the waiter comes around to James, he hesitates for a long moment before asking for just sparkling water. Down at the other end of the table he can see Jeremy open his mouth and then shut it again.

Needless to say, when Jeremy orders his own drink, it's a bottle.

After dinner they move back to the hotel and into the bar. James buys a pint, but ends up pretending to drink more than actually drinking. For a while things are all right – he listens to Richard and Kiff arguing about Mustangs, though most of the discussion just washes over him – but then he happens to look up and see Jeremy across the room, standing at the bar with flushed cheeks, giving a wide, ridiculous grin to the bartender as he takes another glass of something in his hand. Suddenly James has to get out, has to be anywhere other than here, even if it's rude or if it makes him look mental. He shoves his half-finished pint away and stumbles out the bar's side door into the little smoking area. 

It's practically freezing out, and James curses himself for not having the presence of mind to grab his coat, which, in addition to being useful for heat, also has his packet of fags in. But Iain is there already, and after a moment he holds his pack out. "Want one?"

"God yes," James says. He takes a cigarette and then the lighter. The first drag is heaven.

They smoke without speaking. Eventually Iain stubs his end out on the concrete and stuffs the butt into the nearby receptacle. He gives James a nod and opens the door. A wash of noise and light scatters the night air. Someone passes Iain in the doorway. James doesn't need more than a quarter of a second's glance to know it's Jeremy.

Jeremy comes to stand beside him at the wall. After a moment he puts out his hand. James huffs but hands him the cigarette. Their fingers brush against each other and the contact feels bright, electric, even despite the cold.

"Are we going to have a conversation when you're sober?" James asks.

A moment of silence. "You know we aren't," Jeremy says, softly, and it's only a little bit slurred. 

James nods, and shakes his head when Jeremy moves to hand him back the cigarette. He turns to go.

"James—"

He half suspects it's coming, but that doesn't make it any less a punch to the gut.

"I love you."

James squeezes his eyes shut. "No, you don't," he says, and walks away.

\-----

Inside, he hurries to the toilet, splashes warm water on his face until his hands are no longer shaking. _Fuck,_ he thinks. _I can't do this anymore. I can't—_ He has no idea what to do now. Part of him wants to just walk out, to march over to Andy and say he's leaving. There must be other hotels in this city, and if all else failed he could just catch a cab to the airport and spend the night there. It isn't like he hasn't slept in an airport before. 

But then he'd have to explain – if not tonight, then sometime, certainly. He's not sure which would be worse, spending another day or two with Jeremy, or having to explain to Andy that he's ruining the shoot because he and Jeremy fucked a few times.

On second thought, explaining would definitely be worse. 

James dries his face, blows his nose. He can get through this, surely he can. If only they didn't have to share a room, share a bed. 

At least that's a problem he can probably do something about. 

When he exits the toilet, he can see that Jeremy has come back in, is at the bar chatting brightly with Andy like nothing's even happened at all. James presses his lips together and hurries over to Richard, who has just stood up from his table. 

"Trade rooms with me," James says, when he gets close enough to be heard over the din without shouting.

Richard blinks at him. "Who are you in with?" he asks, and then, following the line of James' gaze, "The orangutan? I dunno, mate." He gives James a pointed eyebrow, as if to say, 'You'd better make it worth my while.'

"I'll give you that Triumph of mine that you've had your eye on," James says. "Or whatever else you want. Please, Richard."

"Crikey," Richard blurts, eyes wide. "You really must be desperate."

"Yeah," James says. 

Richard looks at him for a long moment, the amusement dropping out of his expression. "All right," he says. "Forget the Triumph – I want to win it off you fair and square. But I will swap. Fair warning, you've got Kiff." 

Kiff snores dreadfully, but James can't imagine it will be worse than lying in the dark with Jeremy next to him, touching or not touching. "Thank you," James says, relieved.

"What's he done now?"

"Hammond," James says, "I have never meant anything more than what I am about to tell you now." He meets Richard's eyes evenly. "You don't want to know."

Richard snorts. "Yeah, all right," he says. "Now? You can go get your stuff, and I'll tell Jezza so he doesn't accidentally strangle me in my sleep thinking it's you."

James gives him a thin smile. Richard shakes his head and makes his way across the crowded bar. James knows he ought to make his escape while he can, but somehow he's rooted to the spot, helpless to do anything but watch as Richard slaps Jeremy on the back and leans up to say something in his ear. Jeremy turns his head, meets James' eyes. James has no idea what his own expression looks like, but Jeremy's face is frozen, his smile nothing but a grimace. And then Jeremy lifts his glass to his mouth, drains his scotch in one defiant gulp and turns away to order another.


	9. Chapter 9

Neither James' black mood nor Kiff's snoring makes for an easy night, and when James wakes in the morning he's gritty-eyed and sour. At breakfast Jeremy looks dreadfully hungover, and they don't speak to each other. But mid-way through Andy announces, rather wearily, that they probably only need something to end on, so after they've all had real food they troop down to a sidewalk café in a picturesque location and have coffee and pastries for the camera while arguing in the usual way about which of their cars is best. 

Eventually they wind around to a conclusion that each car is better for a different part of the city, so Andy decides on a final sequence of them going their separate ways. James drives off and thinks about taking this last bit literally, about just putting his foot down. He could drive home from here – it'd take longer than flying, sure, but since he's cleared this week for the shoot anyway it's not as if he has somewhere he needs to be. And he wouldn't have to see Jeremy's face again until the studio shoot in three days.

In the end he just circles around the block as intended, mainly because he has no idea where this car needs to end up, and anyway it's a Ferrari, which isn't exactly the kind of thing he wants to drive all the way home from Belgium in. And he'd have to explain to Andy why he'd taken off, which doesn't seem any less dreadful in the light of day than it had the previous night.

They get through lunch and the flight home without having to speak to each other. There are a few awkward moments, but Richard does his best to smooth over things when it's particularly obvious and if the crew notices anything out of the ordinary, they're all too discreet to say anything about it. James makes a mental note to do something nice for all of them later. Right now it feels like all he can do just to keep it together.

The BBC driver drops him off at home just as the sun is setting. James falls into bed and sleeps for fourteen hours. 

\-----

He spends the next two days pottering around the house – doing laundry, playing a new bit of Chopin, taking apart a motorbike engine and putting it half back together again, writing up some things that might or might not make it into his next book. Getting used to the feeling of being alone again. 

There are plenty of things to keep him busy. But the night before the studio shoot James sits in the garden with a cigarette to his lips and acknowledges that two days of seeing no one and speaking not a word haven't settled him. Haven't _comforted_ him, as much as he'd thought they would. No Richard to give him wary glances, no Andy to make him feel guilty for even an hour's deviation from the schedule, no Kiff to keep him awake snoring. No Jeremy to mess with his head, to send him awash with anger and grief in equal measure. No one but himself and his own desires. 

It's lonely as hell.

Overhead the sky is rapidly darkening, clouds scudding in to hide the faint sprinkle of stars. James takes a long drag of his cigarette, sucking in hot smoke and cold air. Then he flicks the ash to the side and uses his free hand to slap himself hard across the face.

"Get yourself together, May," he hisses. "Don't be such a fucking cliché." He's never felt more like one of those sad old queers than he does just now. _You can't let this ruin everything._

Because the truth is, being alone isn't what he wants. Having friends – Colin and Sim and all his other mates and even Oz bloody Clarke – isn't enough. Having all his other projects isn't either. He wants Top Gear and all its excitement and thrills. He wants Richard and Andy and the whole mad crew. And he wants Jeremy, even if the useless idiot Jezza persona is all he ever gets of him. Even if he has to pretend to the end of his days that he isn't grieving for what they might have had.

And if he's going to salvage some sort of working relationship with Jeremy, he's going to have to take the first step. "You're mates," he tells himself firmly. "Maybe not friends, not now, but you've got to be mates, at least." They'd got through Belgium by the skin of their teeth, and no doubt they'll play off James' irritation somehow in the edit, but they sure as hell can't do the whole series that way. 

But maybe he can manage mates, if he tries. He just has to remember what it's like to be nothing more than that. Perhaps he can try to think of Jeremy as he does one of Colin's friends that sometimes joins them in the pub. Someone James is distantly cordial with. Someone it's easy to be cordial with, because he really doesn't give a toss about them.

He smokes the cigarette down to the filter, stubs it out and flicks the butt into the bin. Then he swallows hard and goes inside to get some sleep.

\-----

The next morning he drives out to Dunsfold. James had slept hard again, twelve hours – as if his body was still trying to catch up on the sleep he'd missed in Belgium – and two cups of coffee have done little more than make him twitchy. The sky hasn't changed much since the night before, is lead-grey and thick with clouds, and the winter wind is gusting hard enough that James has to struggle to keep his Porsche steady on the drive down. He's so busy concentrating on what he's doing that he doesn't even have the energy to spare for being nervous until he pulls into the car park beside the hangar and gets out.

A few drops of sleet spatter into his hair as he takes the last steps to the door. Inside, everyone else is there already, milling around the news set. Jeremy looks manic, in the way that means he's running entirely on coffee and prescription pills. His eyes are bloodshot, and there's a patch of stubble at the corner of his jaw where he very clearly hasn't shaved carefully enough. And he's resolutely not looking at James at all, though he does unbend enough to greet James' entrance with a grunt.

James meets Richard's eyes; Richard gives a little helpless shrug that seems to say, 'I've tried talking to him, but god knows if anything I said even penetrated his thick skull.' James straightens his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and goes for the first of his pre-prepared conversational openers.

"Weather's shit," he says casually, flopping down into his customary seat. "The guest today is going to have a nasty time of it, wouldn't you say, Jez?" 

Jeremy gives him a suspicious look, as if he thinks it's a setup for something cutting, but James resolutely keeps his expression vague and pleasant, and after a moment Jeremy says, "Yes, it did look pretty terrible. Still, he'll be doing his part to fill out the bottom of the board."

"A great service to the nation," drawls Richard, leaning back against his half of the sofa and giving James a relieved look as he sets his feet onto the coffee table. "To be commended."

"We should give out little awards," James says. "I mean, we've stopped doing the annual awards—"

"Because they're boring," Jeremy says.

"Right." James really wants to roll his eyes at the interruption, but that feels too normal, too personal. He wouldn't roll his eyes at Colin's friends. Instead he just carries on. "But maybe we could have awards for lap times, at some point. Officially Most Likely To Make The Camera Crew Run For Their Lives and so on."

"You're just looking for an excuse to buy ridiculously shit trophies," Richard says.

"Oh, come now, Hammond," says James, with mock offense. "Do you not know me at all? I'm looking for an excuse to _make_ ridiculously shit trophies. There's this lovely little machine in my workshop that I'm dying to put to use."

"Oh, right," says Richard. "So sorry. Obviously I have misjudged you grievously."

James laughs, and though it comes out a little forced, it's at least better than nothing at all. "I suppose I won't have to make it pistols at dawn after all."

"Should we at some point talk about what we're going to do for news? Or just make it up as we go along and hope no one notices?" Jeremy says, breaking in. The tone is teasing, but there's something not quite right about it. As if he doesn't quite believe that falling back into bantering could be this easy. James doesn't turn his head to look, isn't sure if he wants to see Jeremy's expression.

"Spoilsport," says Richard. He twists sideways, trying to reach for his copy of the stack of script papers. When his fingers come up two inches short he makes a grabbing gesture. James snorts and nudges the stack of papers further away. "You are a shit," Richard tells him, dropping his feet off the table so that he can sit up and reach for it properly.

"This is news to you?" Jeremy says jokingly. He still sounds like he's testing it out, and this time James does turn to look. But the only thing he can see in Jeremy's face is the old casual mockery. James pushes down a feeling of disappointment.

_This is what you wanted,_ he reminds himself. _To do the show, to be mates again. It's normality. And anyway it's the best you're bloody well going to get._

\-----

Of course, treating Jeremy like a casual acquaintance is easier said than done, especially when they can barely get through a ten minute conversation without James wanting to kiss him, or punch him in the face, or both. But holding onto the thought of 'mates, not friends' is enough to let him smile and joke, on camera and off. It's nothing more than small talk, but a bit of mindless chatter about the weather and the guest are more than he could have managed two days ago, so James counts it as progress. Jeremy maintains his suspicious tone all morning, then seems to decide that James is actually sincere and goes straight past politeness into full on cocking about mode again. Which is infuriating in and of itself, but James can see Richard go visibly more relaxed as more and more of the day goes on without a shouting match. So he keeps his mouth shut, and smiles, and tries to let the rest of it go.

After a few hours of rehearsal, the audience begins filing in. The weather hasn't let up at all, so it's a slow parade of damp bodies, a more subdued chatter than usual. Jeremy has to work extra hard to get them all laughing, but when he comes off the news set at the end of his warmup there's a wild exuberance in his step, a bright flash to his grin. James nearly takes a step towards him before he catches himself and moves to make himself another cup of tea instead.

It's not the last time James almost loses control, not by a long shot, and by the time the shoot is over, his nerves are frayed almost to the breaking point. Aside from the weather it's actually gone rather well – perhaps too well. Jeremy has made him laugh more than once, but he's also twice come perilously close to saying something genuinely scandalous on camera, only to back off at the sight of Andy gesticulating angrily. 

The problem is that even the good moments aren't good enough to make James forget his anger. He can be forgiven, he thinks, for wanting some indication that this whole thing is as difficult for Jeremy as it is for him. Maybe that shouldn't matter. Maybe he should be glad that Jeremy finds it so easy to slip back into their old roles. Maybe he should find that makes it easier for himself to do so. But it doesn't, really. It just makes him feel even further from the friendship they once had, further from any chance of rescuing anything good from its ashes.

At the end of the day James signs his last autograph, takes his last photo. He waves goodbye to the last lingering fans, makes his way over to the little office in the back of the hangar. It's empty, but his coat is slung haphazardly on one of the hooks behind the door, and his keys jangle in the pocket as he slips it on.

There is the sound of footsteps behind him. "Coming to the pub?" Jeremy says, giving James a nudge with his elbow.

James knows he really ought to show willing, but the flat "No" is out of his mouth before he even realizes he's going to say it.

"Why the hell not?" 

James turns to give him a scathing look. "You know why not," he says. He thinks about elaborating, but bites it back even though there's no one else in sight. Instead all he says is, "For fuck's sake, Clarkson." 

"Well pardon me for thinking you'd got over your little snit and decided to be friends again," Jeremy says, belligerent.

"Fuck you," James hisses. "We're not friends." He huffs out a breath, and then despite his good intentions the rest of it all just rushes out. Because he's trying his best and yet here, once again, is Jeremy throwing it right back in his face. "Maybe we were never friends. Maybe I was always just another bit part in the story of Jeremy Clarkson's heroic fucking life. Well I'm done with that now. You don't get to just have your jollies and then put me back in the box at the end of the day when you don't want to face the fact that you liked sucking my cock."

There's a sick kind of satisfaction in seeing the expression on Jeremy's face.

"I'm doing the show because I love doing the show," James says quietly. "And talking to you is part of that. But otherwise, you'd better stay the _fuck_ away from me."

He leaves Jeremy there without another word, careful not to let their shoulders brush as he walks out.

\-----

That night, for the first time in months, James lies in bed and slides his hand under the elastic waistband of his boxers. He's jerked off in the shower a couple of time, just a perfunctory release of tension, but always carefully thinking of nothing but his own hand, of listing the steps for the maximally effective wanking procedure. This time he lets himself think about another body – an anonymous one, abstractly attractive: flat stomach and taut arse, a pair of pouting lips that part just enough to admit the head of his cock. 

James takes himself in hand as he imagines it, strokes himself slowly to hardness. Precome slicks his palm, easing the slide of his fingers. After a moment he shoves his boxers down all the way, kicks them off into the depths of the sheeted bed. 

The abstract man would tease him, a flicker of tongue and a puff of heated breath. Then he'd dip his head suddenly, all hot suction, expert, take him all the way down. James curls his fist tighter around his cock, strokes himself harder until his hips are lifting from the mattress. His other hand clenches hard in the sheet. "Fuck—" he grunts.

Arousal surges hard in his gut as he pictures the bowed head of his anonymous partner – curly-haired, _No!_ long-haired, blond – imagines panted breaths and the wet sound of lips on flesh. His thumb rubs over the head of his cock, pressing into the slit for that last little burst of sensation.

In his imagination the bowed head looks up – and it's Jeremy's face there, of course it is, Jeremy's pale eyes so beautifully wanting and the flush across the bridge of his nose, and James comes with a groan that's half pleasure and half pain.

He lies there for a long moment, just getting his breath back. Outside there is the hushed whisper of sleet on the roof, the distant noise of a dog barking. 

Eventually he slings his forearm over his eyes, and tries to pretend they aren't damp.

\-----

In the morning the sky is clear and the air is cold. James drives to the office with a certain amount of nervousness – they're editing the Belgium film today, which means hours locked in a tiny room together and more than the usual number of things to argue about, as if they didn't have enough of those already.

When he arrives he's late. He hurries through security – the guard gives him a knowing wave-through – and taps his foot impatiently during the ride up in the lift. At the door of the office he dithers briefly, then rolls his eyes at himself and pushes the door open.

Richard, Andy, and Dave the editor all look up as he enters. Jeremy isn't there at all.

They chat about nothing in particular for a while – the weather, the traffic. Jeremy still doesn't turn up. Then they try talking about the new Ferrari, which is a subject normally guaranteed to have Jeremy magically appear so that he can spout a ridiculous opinion, but he doesn't turn up then, either. Eventually Andy disappears into his office, muttering something along the lines of 'He had better be dead in a ditch somewhere.' 

Richard says, very quietly, "He didn't come to the pub last night, you know." Dave pulls out his phone in a polite but transparent attempt to look like he isn't paying attention to the conversation.

"Mmm?" says James, trying to sound disinterested. But he can't deny he's worried. It isn't like Jeremy to be late – certainly not this late.

"I don't know what you said to him," Richard says, "and god knows it's none of my fucking business—"

James doesn't get to hear how that sentence is going to end, however, because Andy comes out of his office just then, and he looks as unhappy as James has ever seen him.

"Right," Andy says. "Let's just get this done."

None of them are stupid enough to say anything other than "All right" to that.

The editing room is dark enough that James can relax his carefully neutral expression, and he stares blankly at the screens as Dave lines up the first of the footage. If Jeremy's ill – but if he'd been ill, he'd have called Andy at least. And probably texted him and emailed him just for good measure. No, it must be something else. James doesn't want to think that Jeremy's staying away because of him, but he has to at least entertain the possibility. Maybe he'd been too harsh. But god knows Jeremy had deserved every bloody word of it.

Richard elbows him hard in the ribs, and James realizes that Dave is waiting for his okay to play the tape. "Yes, sorry, go," he says, and tries to focus.

They work for a while, just weeding out footage that's definitely useless or that doesn't fit with the through-line of the segment. But it feels weird to be doing it without Jeremy. There are too many awkward silences, too many moments when one of them pauses, waiting for another voice to butt in. An indefinable spark is missing. 

Eventually Andy breaks off mid-sentence, pulls off his glasses and throws them down on top of the control panel. "Fuck it," he says, putting his hands to his face. "Just... fuck it all. Go away, boys. Come back tomorrow."

_Maybe we really have ruined it,_ James thinks. _God. What have I done?_


	10. Chapter 10

James considers attempting to dodge Richard on the way out – even has a line ready about a pressing appointment with his dentist to ask about getting his teeth whitened, thinking that perhaps he can leg it while Richard is still sputtering – but when he looks over as they're exiting the editing booth he can see that Richard's jaw is set hard, and he knows there'll be no escaping at least some sort of argument.

Thankfully Richard waits until they've got their coats on, have walked out through security and are well into the car park before he grabs James' elbow, spinning him around.

"Are you ever going to tell me what the fuck is going on?" he demands. "Or do I have to play twenty fucking questions to get it out of you? Perhaps you can tell me, is the problem bigger than a breadbox?"

"Fuck off," James growls. His head has begun to ache the way it always does during editing, a throbbing pain that grows from just behind his left eyeball. And he's worried about Jeremy, too, though he doesn't want to be. It's just bloody typical that Jeremy can't even let him be angry without finding some way to ruin it. "It's none of your business."

"It sodding well is, when the two of you can't even be in the same room together." James opens his mouth to reply, but Richard follows this with "What's he _done_?" and some of James' irritation melts.

"Look," he says shortly. "I'm hacked off with him right now, yes, but he's got no call to just skive off from things. That's on him. It's nothing to do with me."

"And you're hacked off because, what, he behaved like an arsehole in Belgium? What'd he do, tell you that you're a prig? Insult your mum? Make a drunken pass at you?" Richard says this last with a laugh, but James is tired and uneasy, so his reaction time is too slow to let him join in naturally. Richard's eyes go wide. "Shit," he says. "Really?"

James curses himself. He looks around to make sure no one's listening, but it's the middle of the morning and the far end of the car park, and they're actually alone. Still, he lowers his voice when he says, "It wasn't like that. It wasn't—" He scrubs his hands over his face. When he looks up again, Richard is regarding him with a wary look.

"Are you sure you really want to know this?" James asks plaintively. By which he means, 'are you really going to make me tell it?'

"James. You're my friend. And so's he, even if he's a fuckup. Something's been going on for months now, and I've let it be because it seemed like it was mutual, whatever it was. It wasn't doing us any harm. But now..."

"Yeah." Maybe he ought to say something to Richard at least, especially if Jeremy's going to continue pulling stunts like today's. And god knows Richard's been patient enough. 

"If it's just a matter of a drunken pass..." Richard offers. "I mean, you know what he's like. He'll do all sorts of mad things."

"Yeah," James says again. It stings hearing Richard say it, but he's not wrong. "That's kind of the problem." He finds himself fiddling with the toggle of the zip on his jacket, makes himself stop. "We were sleeping together for a while. But he only wanted to when he was absolutely shitfaced. I said I wasn't happy about it, and he disappeared rather than do anything differently."

"Aw, hell," says Richard, rocking back on his heels, and then, "You know that's not what I meant, mate. I just meant—"

James cuts him off with a shrug. "Doesn't matter. It's true enough. Anyway, all he did in Belgium was try again, and I told him to fuck off, and then yesterday I had to tell him to fuck off rather more vehemently, and there we are."

Richard opens his mouth, shuts it again. James keeps his gaze moving, looking over the cars around them – tells himself it's in case one of them should suddenly sprout ears or a microphone, and not because he's half terrified of seeing a look of horror or disgust on Richard's face. 

But when Richard finally speaks, what he says is, "That's fucked up. I'm sorry, James."

James lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Yeah." He hurries on before they have to talk about his feelings for even a single second longer. "Look, it'll all work out." It's more optimistic than he feels, just at the moment, but he's hardly going to tell Richard that. "Maybe we'll have to do some races that are you and him up against me for a while, but we can spin that, make it a feature. And— I'll talk to him. It won't be like today again."

"It'd better not be," Richard says, and then, gently, "Are you all right?"

The bare question cuts like a knife, and James has to close his eyes for a long moment before he can answer. "I will be," he says finally. 

\-----

After Richard drives off, James stands in the car park for a long moment. Then he pulls out his phone and dashes off a text to Jeremy before he can lose his nerve.

'For god's sake don't sulk. I said I'd work with you and I meant it.'

He doesn't expect a reply, but when he gets home and slips his phone into the charger, there's a message displayed across the screen. 

'I know you did.'

And another, sent a few seconds later, 'I'll be there tomorrow.'

James hasn't the faintest idea what to do with that.

\-----

The next morning James arrives at the office – bang on time, for once, though that's only because he'd left twenty minutes early. And he'd only left early because he'd been awake since four having an attack of nerves, and was rapidly approaching the point of wanting to punch himself in the face. But he's on time, and decides to count that as a net positive for the morning.

His resolute optimism lasts right up until he walks in and sees Jeremy. 

It's a familiar tableau – Jeremy sat at his desk, head propped up on one hand while Andy stands beside him with his hands on his hips. Except Jeremy isn't rolling his eyes, isn't making some extravagantly rude gesture as he tells Andy where to go. Instead he looks ill – properly ill, white-faced and hollow-eyed, like he's halfway to keeling over and maybe the chair is the only thing keeping him vaguely upright.

His voice is off, too, thready and weak. James just catches the tail end of one sentence and the beginning of the next: "—happen again, all right? Just, for fuck's sake—" Jeremy trails off when he spots James, then visibly gathers himself and says, "Morning."

"Morning," James says warily. Inside, though, he's swamped with a feeling of guilt so strong it's almost unbearable. _There must be something else wrong,_ he thinks. There's nothing he knows about that can make Jeremy look like that, even when he was in the worst of his insomnia troubles. _Must be. And all I've done is make it worse. He deserved it, but— Oh, god, I don't know._

Andy's gaze flicks between them, then turns away with a huff. "I give up," he says. "Hammond better be here in a minute." He goes back into his office and shuts the door.

James thinks about saying something sympathetic, but he's honestly not sure what kind of reception he'd get, so he pulls out his phone instead and texts Richard. 'Wilman says hurry up. He's in a mood.' Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jeremy slump back against the chair, eyes closed. He sends another text. 'Jez genuinely looks like he's been run over by a tank. We'll have to go easy on him.'

His phone buzzes with a reply only a few seconds later. 'When ISN'T Wilman in a mood? Fucking hell, I'm in the car park, all right?' And then another: 'You're telling me to go easy on him? Seriously?'

James texts back. 'You'll understand when you see him.'

Richard doesn't reply. He takes longer than James would have expected to come upstairs, but when he comes in he's carrying a cardboard tray full of cups of coffee – nicer stuff than the instant swill that their own office machine makes. James snags a cup and attempts to convey his appreciation with a glance – he's pretty sure it's understood, because Richard rolls his eyes. He sets the tray down on Jeremy's desk, nudging Jeremy's foot with his own as he does so.

"Wakey wakey," he says, but not as loudly as he might have done. Over Jeremy's head he mouths 'I see what you mean.'

"Die in a fire," Jeremy says, without opening his eyes. But then he does open them, sits up, grants Richard with a genuine smile when he sees the coffee. "I take it back. You are a gentleman beyond measure."

"Could you say that again once I get my phone out to record it?" Richard says. "That one's yours, by the way."

"Sorry, Hamster, that was it. You've missed your chance until next century." The expression on Jeremy's face as he takes the first sip of coffee is nothing short of blissful, and James has to turn away from it. It isn't fair for Jeremy to go on being funny and vulnerable and human, just when James had made up his mind not to care anymore.

The door to Andy's office bangs open. "If you're quite finished being a pair of self-congratulatory—" Richard hands him a cup, and Andy closes his mouth on the rest of the sentence. "Fine," he says, after a moment. "You, I might let live. The rest of you are three minutes from the firing squad. Now get in the fucking booth."

They file into the editing booth. Dave's there already, having perhaps wisely decided to avoid the shouting. Andy has him start the footage from the beginning, effectively throwing out everything they'd done yesterday. James doesn't dare remark on it, however. At least with Jeremy there, they stand half a chance of making this film actually work.

And it does work. Despite Jeremy's worn appearance, his knack for putting a segment together is as strong as ever. After the coffee kicks in he's quick to catch the flow of the narrative they'd tentatively worked out, quick to suggest clips that could fit in among the longer sections. He's on form with the narration, too – both James and Richard had drafted bits of voice-over, but it's Jeremy's deft touch with words that moves the whole thing from basically amusing into the territory of actual laughter.

It's a good day's work. Would even have been a great day, perhaps, except...

Except that every time Jeremy speaks to James or about him, it's painfully, achingly polite. He says "if you please" and "if James doesn't mind" and generally makes himself agreeable to whatever ideas James suggests, no matter how daft. When he does disagree strongly enough to actually say something, it's horribly obvious that he's tentative about doing so. Which means James ends up giving in far too easily, because he doesn't want to break the fragile peace with anything that might lead to a shouting match. The whole thing is dreadfully awkward.

It's nothing like Wednesday, when they'd fallen too-easily back into something that should have been difficult. But somehow recalling that he'd wished for it to be more difficult doesn't make James feel any better about the fact that it _is_ difficult.

He feels like an arsehole. Some part of him is desperate to find a way to erase the circles under Jeremy's eyes – visible even in the flickering screen-light of the editing booth – or to ease the the tight line of his shoulders. 

And yet none of the things he'd said on Wednesday are any less true now. 

They send out for lunch and power through, which means that when they leave the booth at the end of the day it's with a script worked out and plans to come in over the next couple of days to record their voice-overs properly. Richard takes off for home immediately; James is too knackered and muddled to do anything but follow him out, longing for a bit of quiet so that he can try to get his head on straight.

As the door shuts behind him, he can just hear Andy say, "Right. Sit down, Jez."

\-----

That night, after James has eaten dinner and is slumped on the sofa trying to work up the energy to walk down the hall to his bedroom, his phone rings. It's Andy.

"Yes?" James answers warily.

Andy doesn't waste any time. "Jez won't tell me what's going on, so I'm appealing to you."

James blinks. "What?"

"I'm not fucking blind, James. Whatever you said to him on Wednesday—"

"Wait one bloody minute," James says, sitting up straighter. "We had words, yes, but— that can't be what had him looking like that today. Like a stiff wind would blow him over." He huffs out a wry laugh. "I'm fairly certain there's nothing in the world I could say that would affect him like that."

Andy's silent for a long moment. "James, you pillock," he says finally. "Of course it's because of what you said."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't have to."

James doesn't know what to say to that. The idea that he could be the cause of Jeremy's visible unhappiness is both thrilling and horrifying. Thrilling, because of course he wants to think his words had the power to mean that much. And horrifying, because despite everything that's happened between them, he still doesn't really want Jeremy to be hurt. 

"Look, if you want me out, I'm out," he blurts, and then nearly claps his hand to his mouth in horror. Andy sucks in a sharp breath, and James says, hurriedly, "I didn't mean that. I'm just... For god's sake, Andy, you make it sound like I'm torturing him for fun. I'm not getting any pleasure out of— out of fighting with him." Fighting seems like too small a word for something as final as telling Jeremy to get out of his life, but it's the only word he's got at the moment.

"Then why keep doing it?" Andy says, sounding conciliatory. "If you don't want to tell me what this is about, fine. It's between you and him. But can you at least tell me what you're waiting for? An apology? A sincere promise to never do whatever it was ever again? Tell me what you want, and I'll make him do it. "

James huffs out a laugh despite himself. "Even you can't fix this," he tells Andy wearily. "It's not... It's not a matter of apologies."

"What is it, then?"

James stares at the opposite wall of the sitting room for a long moment, trying to decide what to say. 'You can't make him sober' is true, but not entirely to the point. 'You can't make him love me' is more honest, but it's also more honest than James really wants to be.

"He's got to do it himself," James says finally, "or it won't be worth a tinker's damn."

Andy sighs.

"The show won't suffer," James promises. "I'll work with him, I—"

"I know you will," Andy says wearily. It's an eerie echo of Jeremy's text message from the day before. "He said you wouldn't let it get in the way and it hasn't, so far. Today was awkward, yeah, but it was a good day's work. I'm not saying otherwise."

"Then why the fuck are you bothering me?" James bristles, but Andy's reply stops him cold.

"Because you've always forgiven him so easily before."

It's true. He's always found it easier to give in to Jeremy than to fight him. Easier to make some excuse for his behavior than try to change it. And maybe... maybe it's gone this far precisely because he forgave Jeremy too easily. Maybe – if he'd just demanded something honest from the beginning, and not been pathetic enough to take whatever he could get – they wouldn't be here now, with it all falling to pieces.

"You're right," James says. "But I can't this time."

There's a moment of silence. "All right," Andy says. "Just... all right." He sighs. "I'll see you Tuesday, okay?"

"Okay."

James stares at the phone for a long time after Andy hangs up.


	11. Chapter 11

James spends the weekend doing simple things – reading, eying bikes on eBay, editing a Toy Stories script – but though he manages to forget about the situation with Jeremy for minutes, even hours at a stretch, it keeps coming back to him in the moments when he least expects it. When he's sorting laundry, and suddenly remembers Jeremy's hands fumbling open the buttons of this particular shirt. When he makes tea and nearly puts three lumps of sugar in it before catching himself. When he comes up with a particularly good line for his column, and thinks approvingly of how Jeremy would laugh - and then has to sit with his head in his hands for a long moment to stop himself deleting it.

He's not entirely sure why it all seems to be hitting him now, when Wednesday and Thursday had been so much worse. Perhaps it's just that it's finally sinking in.

He told Jeremy to leave him alone, and he has done. Which isn't what James had expected at all.

On Monday he goes into the studio and records his piece of the Belgium film. They don't usually overlap for this, so it's no surprise that the only people he sees are the office staff and the BBC sound recording crew, but somehow Jeremy's absence is a bit like a wound nonetheless. After he's done, James slopes home and stares into his liquor cabinet for a long time before he heaves the door shut and goes to the piano instead.

\-----

Tuesday arrives with a heavy inevitability. James takes the Panda to the office in fog so thick he can barely see his headlights, and comes within an inch of being run off the motorway by some idiot in a people carrier. By the time he pulls into the BBC car park he's wound tight, has to take a long, deep breath to settle himself before he gets out of the car.

He's the last to arrive, as usual. The other three are talking very quietly, and James nearly loses his nerve and goes right back out again. It's not just facing Jeremy – it's facing Richard, too, who knows the whole sordid story, and Andy who doesn't know the whole story but who is the one they all, ultimately, have to answer to. James doesn't actually have a chance to leg it, though, because they all look up when he comes in.

"Morning," James ventures. Richard rolls his eyes.

"Morning. You're late, James."

"Yes." Probably he ought to be finding something amusing to say right about now, but he can't think of a single thing. "Sorry."

"It's all right. Just means we've already allocated all the best bits for tomorrow. I hope you'll enjoy talking about the new Prius."

James lifts two fingers in Richard's direction and shrugs off his coat. As he's turning to hang it up on a nearby hook he catches Jeremy's eye. Jeremy offers up a thin smile.

He looks – not better, not really. Differently terrible, James supposes. He still has dark circles under his eyes, is still thin at the mouth like his skin doesn't quite fit right. But the paleness of the previous Friday is gone, replaced with a feverish flush that's no less frightening to look at.

_My fault,_ James thinks, and then shakes himself and turns away. _His own bloody fault,_ he corrects angrily.

Once he's got a cup of tea in hand they settle down to the business of work. They're only finishing the studio script for this week, so it's a lot of talking bollocks about anything and everything until bits of it stick. It's marginally less awkward than Friday had been. James tries not to offer any ideas he isn't reasonably sure of, and though Jeremy's still far more conciliatory than usual, it's not quite as noticeable. Still, there's none of the careless laughter that they used to have, none of the easy rapport. 

When they stop for lunch James escapes to the fire escape for a smoke. The fog hasn't lifted at all and James can barely see a foot beyond the railing through the gloom. The flare of his lighter produces only a momentary glimmer of brightness. 

It's only when he's stubbing out the end of the fag that he realizes he'd been half waiting for Jeremy to join him. 

After lunch they finalize the scripts for the linking pieces and then go back to the news, passing around various Internet printouts and brochures they've been sent. Jeremy's hands shake a little whenever he hands James something across the table. James pretends not to notice.

It's late in the day when they finish. Normally someone would suggest a trip to the pub after this, but James is too wary and he supposes the others are, as well. In the end they go their separate ways with no more than a studiedly casual goodbye. 

James chest aches all the way home.

\-----

Wednesday is studio day. James arrives so hesitant he's nearly twitching, but though Jeremy still looks fairly terrible and their last minute rehearsals are stilted, once the audience files in it's like a switch has flipped for Jeremy. He's _on_ , cheerful and sly, flirting with the women and shaking hands with the men. When they roll camera Jeremy's intro is just as good, just as ridiculous as ever, and maybe it's only because James knows him so well that he can see how much of an effort it all is. 

James throws himself into his own role, hamming up his habitual pedantry and uselessness. Once Richard gives him a look that says he's overdoing it, but otherwise he seems grateful enough that the two of them can get past their issues enough to paper over the cracks.

Nothing goes horribly wrong. Nothing explodes. Jeremy doesn't even manage to say anything more than usually objectionable. 

Still, by the time the last of the fans are leaving, James feels exhausted, like he hasn't taken a breath in hours. He slips off to the toilet, lets himself sit for five full minutes with his head in his hands, thinking about nothing in particular.

When he comes back, the crew is breaking down the bits of things that can't stay between recordings, packing up the camera equipment. Jeremy is nowhere in sight. 

Richard sidles up to him. "Pub?" he says, and then, pointedly, "Jez says he isn't coming. In fact, he's fucked off home already."

James considers for a long moment. He can't deny that he's missed it – missed Richard and the others, missed feeling easy among his friends. He blows out a breath. "All right."

\-----

He half expects to get interrogated again, in the pub, but with various crew members there it's easy enough to keep things casual. For the first half hour Andy keeps giving him the occasional flicker of a penetrating glance across the table, but eventually he seems to decide that James is unlikely to start shouting at people who aren't Jeremy and gives it up in favor of ragging on Brian about his new Mazda. 

They talk about Iain's perpetually broken-down Porsche, about Andy's daughter's karate lessons, about Richard's rapidly-increasing number of horses. Kiff leads a round of 'worst thing I ever had to do because I lost a bet,' which involves him describing how he'd climbed out onto a roof in the dead of winter wearing nothing but his girlfriend's underwear.

It's actually rather nice. James limits himself to a single pint, but since they'll all have to drive home after this, it's the same all around. The conversation flows like water, trading jokes back and forth. Slowly, carefully, the knot in James' stomach begins to loosen. 

\-----

They carry on. The following week is an echo of the one before – Jeremy stiffly polite when they're in the office, looking as tired and worn as a wet dishrag. Polite, too, when they're in the studio rehearsing, keeping himself away from James unless they're working on a specific segment, right up until the audience comes in, at which point it's full Cocking About Mode, the dial turned up to eleven. To James' eye there's still something off about Jeremy but the audience doesn't seem to notice and they're as raucous and appreciative as ever.

When the audience leaves, Jeremy isn't far behind. James slopes off to the pub with the others and then home alone afterwards, trying to tell himself he isn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.

\-----

The cycle repeats itself again the following week, and the one after that. They film four shows, take notes for a couple of possible segments in the next series. James goes to the pub with Richard and the others a few times, always without Jeremy. It's odd – but everything feels slightly odd, these days. 

Jeremy slowly loses the feverish tinge to his face, loses the shake of his hands. But the politeness remains, and the reserve. In fact, James is hard-pressed to think of a moment when Jeremy has spoken to him at all, other than strictly work-related conversation. Richard tries to pick up the slack a little, tries to make conversation between the both of them together, but it's awkward and after a while he gives up and just settles for having a conversation with one of them or the other at any given moment. It works, more or less. At least there isn't any shouting.

On the days they aren't filming James' evenings yawn emptily ahead of him, so he buys a deeply inadvisable shambles of a bike off ebay and spends his nights taking it apart, getting disgusted with it, spending an even more inadvisable amount of money on replacement parts, and then finally beginning to put it back together. When he can't face even that he slumps on the sofa and watches an endless parade of mediocre history documentaries, soaking it all in until his brain is filled up with William the Conqueror and Julius Caesar and Stalin, and there's no room for anything else. 

\-----

Suddenly, somehow, a month goes by. On Wednesday after the studio shoot Jeremy doesn't disappear right away and James braces himself for something ugly. But instead Jeremy just exchanges a glance with Richard and says, not quite convincingly, "Figured I'd join you."

"Sounds good," Andy says, clapping him on the back. None of them look at James at all.

James swallows, doesn't turn away. Just reaches for his coat on the hook and slides it on, left arm first and then the right. He could leave now, if he wanted to – could cede tonight's pub visit to Jeremy and accept that this is territory they're never going to share ever again. Because maybe it will be a disaster. Maybe Jeremy will get absolutely shit-faced and have to take a cab back to the city, maybe he'll say something horrible, maybe he'll make a pass at the waitress. 

But James is more lonely than he'd like to admit. He's tried to fill his evenings with projects, with other friends (Colin must be bloody sick of him by now), but it isn't the same without Jeremy. And Jeremy seems to be trying rather hard not to be an arse. Maybe it's grasping at straws but James isn't ready to give up on any chance of regaining their friendship, not yet.

He zips up his coat, forces a smile. "See you there?"

Something eases in Jeremy's shoulders. "Yeah."

For once in his life James is the first to arrive. He orders a drink, then settles at a booth near the end of the bar. The pint glass is cool against the palms of his hands. He thinks about pulling out his phone just for something to do but it's only another moment before the door thumps open and Jeremy and Andy and Iain and Richard come in, all arguing about something. They wander up to the bar.

"Evening. What can I get for you?" the bartender asks. 

Jeremy answers first. "Just a tonic water, thanks."

James' jaw actually drops open, and he gapes for a long moment before shutting his mouth with an abrupt click. Dimly he can hear Iain and Andy ordering a couple of pints. A moment later Richard slides into the booth beside him. 

"All right?" Richard says, voice low.

"Fine," James says, and then, "Cock, was that completely obvious?"

Richard snorts. "A bit. Look, mate, he's—"

"Leave it," James hisses. "I'm not— I can't talk about this with you." Richard hasn't brought it up again since that horrible conversation in the BBC car park and James has been deeply grateful for that, but it does mean that they haven't actually hashed out who knows what. "Especially not now." He gives a little jerk of his head to indicate their surroundings.

"Just give him a chance," Richard says. James doesn't know what the hell that means – give him a chance to what? – but Richard slides out of the booth before he can actually ask the question. James rubs the bridge of his nose in frustration.

A moment later Iain slides into the space Richard has just vacated, pint in hand, and strikes up a conversation about the latest Ford rumor that's making the rounds. James seizes on the topic with perhaps more enthusiasm than he might, normally. He's half anticipating that Jeremy will sit down, too – will perhaps barge right into the conversation as if nothing's changed – but he doesn't. Instead Jeremy sits down at the end of the next table over, about as far away from James as he can get, and starts talking to Andy about something else entirely. James isn't sure whether the hollow feeling in his chest is relief or disappointment.

\-----

Another few weeks go by. Jeremy carries on coming to the pub but he always takes care to be on the other side of the group from James, talking to someone else. Which means that James ends up having rather a lot of conversations with Richard or Andy or Kiff or Iain or Tom, but never all of them at once. In some ways it's lonelier like this than it had been before. He sees Jeremy all the time now – sees him laughing and gesticulating wildly and telling terrible jokes – but the evidence of their fractured friendship is always on display because they barely speak to each other directly, and when they do it's stiff and awkward. 

James would think it all some sort of vindictive punishment, would think Jeremy had heard his 'leave me alone' and decided to meanly follow it to the letter until kingdom fucking come, except that Jeremy doesn't avoid him like he's waiting for James to notice. He doesn't stalk away pointedly, doesn't huff. Just is, somehow or other, elsewhere. And he still isn't drinking – at least, he isn't drinking in James' presence – but that doesn't feel like a show either. There's no flicker of his gaze sideways to make sure James is paying attention when he orders his soda, no raising of his voice to make sure it's been heard. 

It's like James doesn't even exist to him anymore. 

James tries not to let on just how much he _is_ paying attention, but he's pretty sure that he's not doing a great job of it. The trouble is, Jeremy looks better now than he has in a while, thinner around the waist and less thin around the eyes, like he's eating better and sleeping well. His shoulders seem less tight than they have in the past, his laugh a little bit less strained. If it weren't for the utter ruin of their relationship James would be delighted for him. 

But whenever James thinks maybe today's the day when they'll start being friends again – when James will figure out how to stop being angry and hurt and confused, when Jeremy will stop ignoring him and somehow everything will magically be as it was – it's Jeremy's new easiness that gives him pause.

Because if James is honest with himself, he'd thought that if Jeremy ever got sober and got his life figured out, he'd come crawling back, and James would have his chance to be magnanimously forgiving. But it's looking more and more like Jeremy has discovered how much better his life is without James in it. And why wouldn't he? After James had told him off so many times, shouted at him, turned him away. Hell, maybe Jeremy really even is straight after all. Maybe all those months really were just a drunken mistake.

After they film the eighth show, James skips the trip to the pub, makes a vague excuse and goes straight home because he just doesn't think he can bear it, not tonight. But when he walks into his house the silence is like a slap to the face and he has to stand in the hallway for a long moment just breathing hard, trying to get himself under control.

How had he done this before? How had he gone on, coming home to this echoing house night after night without even the hope of something more? He and Jeremy, they'd've driven each other mad – they _did_ drive each other mad, and that's the least of it – but it would have been better than having to face the shell of what once was, every time he goes to work. At the moment he's beginning to think that anything would be better than that.

\-----

James spends the rest of the week throwing himself into new projects, setting up meetings with various BBC execs and with Sim (who takes one look at him and says, "Aw, hell, James. You all right?"), having dinner with Colin, finishing the last of the bike repairs. He writes up treatments for five different Man Lab segments, watches another four hours of terrible documentaries. Richard calls him once but James doesn't answer, deletes the voicemail without listening to it. 

The following Wednesday he turns up for the studio shoot, as late as he can make it without being what Andy calls Treasonously Late. He pulls in next to Richard's Porsche and gets out, tugging his coat tighter against the wind. As he goes past the second hangar that they use for storage he can hear raised voices, audible through a half-opened window in the back.

"I can't just—" It's Jeremy's voice, sharp and pained. James stops walking without realizing he's going to.

"You have to." That's Andy.

"I fucking well don't," Jeremy says. "You don't get to tell me what to do, not about this."

"Someone ought to. You're a bloody fool, Jeremy," Andy spits.

There's a thump as something slams against the wall of the hangar from inside, setting the whole building to shaking. " _Fuck you, _" Jeremy says, almost a shout. "You think I don't know that?" James can hear him suck in a breath. "You think I don't know that I've ruined the best fucking thing in my life—"__

__James turns on his heel and walks away as quickly as he can._ _

__\-----_ _

__He gets through the rest of the day on autopilot, mind whirring frantically. He can't understand why Jeremy would say the show's ruined – yes, things are tense between them now (tenser today than ever), but on camera they're both professional enough to make it work. None of the audiences seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary._ _

__Maybe it's just that Jeremy's as sick of this strained silence between them as James is. Maybe it's just that Jeremy isn't having any fun anymore. God knows James isn't._ _

__It's this last thought that brings him up short, halfway through signing his name on some girl's tee shirt (he's gone for the hem rather than the specific bit of the shirt she's offered). He has to swallow hard before he can make himself finish scrawling the Y._ _

__Their contracts are up this year. He'd been assuming they'd just carry on, but the last time he'd actually, genuinely thought about it was months ago, before everything went to hell. It doesn't seem like nearly as much of a foregone conclusion now._ _

__\-----_ _

__He keeps waiting for Andy or Jeremy to call them all into a meeting, to tell them it's all over. If Jeremy doesn't want to continue then Richard won't either, and James wouldn't bet on Andy sticking around. They'll hand off the show to three younger idiots and then go their separate ways and make their own shows, and James will probably never see Jeremy again._ _

__If he thinks about it objectively, he can imagine wanting that. He can imagine what it would be like not to have to face the reminders of what they once were, what it would be like to get over Jeremy for real, to move on and find someone new. But objectivity doesn't keep him from feeling sick at the thought of it._ _

__\-----_ _

__The meeting he's dreading never comes. They finish filming the series, the last few episodes coming together as well as can be expected. At the end of series party Jeremy lifts his glass of tonic water and raises a toast. "To another brilliant series, and the prospect of more to come."_ _

__A cheer goes up from the crew. James forces a smile and lifts his wine, joins in the chorus. But the wording of Jeremy's toast stays with him. He can't think Jeremy would do it like that, not if he was planning on ending things. He wouldn't give the crew false hope._ _

__But something has to give, and soon. Maybe it's just James that he'll ask to leave. Maybe the rest of them will carry on without him._ _

__James spends most of the night drifting from one conversation to the next, trying to lock faces and voices in his memory: Iain's sly teasing, Kiff's exuberance, Brian's gruff attempts to hide the fact that he is as much of a child about fast cars as the rest of them. All the myriad crew members they've worked with over the course of the year, office staff and researchers and editing techs and producers and mechanics. Sometimes he gets drawn into a conversation for a while, but he can't maintain interest for too long and always ends up sidling away, pretending to sip at his drink, until he finds another group to lurk on the edges of. He doesn't talk to Jeremy. Jeremy makes no attempt to talk to him._ _

__That night, after the party's over, James dreams of an empty road stretching out in front of him all the way to the horizon._ _

__\-----_ _

__In the morning he makes breakfast without thinking about anything, does the crossword, washes the breakfast dishes. He's just rinsed his plate and set it in the drying rack when the doorbell rings._ _


	12. Chapter 12

James doesn't bother checking who's at the door before he opens it, which means he's rather taken aback to discover Jeremy standing on the stoop. His hands are shoved awkwardly into his pockets and his shoulders are hunched tightly against the cold, but his expression is resolute. Behind him the late morning sky is overcast, clouds curling across it in swift, grey whorls. 

_Ah,_ James thinks. _Here it comes._ He's been fired from pretty much every other job he's ever had – he'd have thought he'd be used to it by now. But it still makes his heart sink.

"Can I come in?" Jeremy asks.

Wordlessly, James steps back and holds the door open so he can enter. There is an awkward moment in the hallway when neither of them moves. Finally James clears his throat.

"Take your coat?"

Jeremy doesn't say anything, but something in his shoulders eases and he shrugs the coat off, hands it over. James hangs it in the closet, then tips his head in the direction of the sitting room. Jeremy nods.

They settle onto opposite ends of the sofa. Jeremy takes a deep breath and says, "James, I— Look, I'm sober right now, all right? And whatever you need me to do to prove that to your satisfaction, I'll do it."

James blinks. That's not at all what he'd expected Jeremy to say. If this is the prelude to kicking James off the show, it's a hell of a way to start. After a moment he realizes that Jeremy is waiting for him to say something, so he actually considers the idea, then shakes his head. "I trust you," he says, and it's the truth. There are plenty of things that he isn't willing to take on faith, but somehow he trusts Jeremy not to lie to his face about that, not now. And... he's glad to see the little warm hint of a smile that the statement brings to Jeremy's face, even if it's only a fleeting glimpse before his expression goes serious again, eyes flickering away.

"I haven't had a drink in two months," Jeremy says. "Not since—"

_Christ,_ James thinks, as reality dawns like a punch to the gut. _This isn't me getting fired. This is him finally giving me a sodding explanation._

He must make some sort of noise at this revelation, because Jeremy cuts himself off mid-sentence, eyes snapping back to James' face. 

"What?" he says.

James swallows, then shakes his head again. "Nevermind," he says, as evenly as he can manage. "Just... go on."

Jeremy blows out a breath, but he doesn't go back to what he was saying immediately, just stares off into the middle distance for a long moment, visibly gathering himself. 

"When I got thrown out of Repton," he says abruptly, "the headmaster told my mum something. He said, 'Jeremy will either be very famous or he'll end up in jail.'" He laughs a little at this, but it's brittle. "And she really believed it would be jail, I think. My dad did, too, and they were neither of them shy about letting me know it. We had an argument – well, lots of arguments, really. But one big one, when I said I wouldn't go elsewhere, that I wanted to get out into the world, get a job instead of sitting around learning Latin or whatever. I remember Mum said, 'Cars and girls, cars and girls, that's all there is to you.'" 

The impression is frighteningly accurate.

"And I swore to myself that I was going to prove her wrong by making my life all about cars and girls and making a success of it. It was a stupid thing to hang my hat on but there you go, I was sixteen." Jeremy shrugs, a twitch of shoulders. "You know what that's like."

James considers his own late teens, how many jobs he'd applied for before he'd lucked into the one at Autocar, how many weddings he'd played piano at to finance his freelance work, the sleepless nights writing articles in his bedroom at his parents' house after hours in the pub with his mates, drinking cheep beer and getting the shit kicked out of him for his hair and his tendency to talk too much about prog rock. 

So yeah, he can understand how Jeremy had clung to that one idea, had built himself around it until it was almost forgotten in everything that followed. "I know," he says.

"And the other thing," Jeremy says, "is – I'm telling this all backwards, I know. But Mum had asked him – the headmaster – what I'd done, you know, trying to find out if it was something they could argue him out of, and he said, 'About the only thing he _hasn't_ done is bother the other boys.' And then of course he went on to list all the things I actually had done, smoking and insolence and bullying and never doing a lick of work, etcetera. But it scared me, that bit. I think, now, it's because I'd been thinking about it, though god knows I sure as fuck hadn't admitted that I was thinking about it."

He scrubs his hands over his face, looking suddenly weary. "So... I... that's how it started, is what I'm trying to tell you. Maybe none of those were good reasons but they _were_ reasons. And the whole cars and girls thing worked for a while, for years, really. It was easy. Especially after the show started taking off. I had Alex and then I had Francie and yeah, neither of those things lasted more than a couple of years, but I never had any problem meeting women—"

James clenches his hands in the fabric of his jeans at this, grounding himself with the rough press of the denim. He's all too aware of Jeremy's ease with women, though he gives Jeremy credit for never going out with fans, only women in television or publishing or who have established themselves already, somehow.

"—and mum just kept ragging me about it, you know, 'When are you going to settle down and make something of yourself?' Here I am making this show with 8 million viewers and she's still asking me that." He makes an exasperated gesture. "And then at some point I realized that I wanted you, that I'd been wanting you, but some part of me just—" He stops, swallows. Looks away over James' right shoulder. "—just couldn't do it, because it would be giving in."

He pauses for a long moment, and James says, "Go on," as evenly as he can manage.

"And I suppose it occurred to me, when we were in the pub that first time, that if I was pissed then it didn't count. It wasn't giving in, it wasn't _real_. That I could have it without losing... the only way I've ever known how to be."

James finds himself nodding. He can see how Jeremy could get there, from where he'd started. He doesn't like it, but he can see how it had happened.

"Those first few months— I was so happy, James. I had no idea that you weren't. I didn't think that—" Jeremy gives a little self-deprecating shrug. "I didn't think. Obviously. Maybe I should have noticed. But you know, you never said a bloody thing, and then one day you just shouted and threw me out, right when I'd worked up all my courage..." He holds up a hand briefly, as if to stop James from interrupting, though James hasn't said a word. "It's no excuse, I know. But I didn't know what to do, I didn't know what you wanted, I didn't know how to... how to be what I _thought_ you wanted, and still be myself. I was terrified. So I ran away. And then in Belgium you were there and I was rat-arsed and I suppose I thought I'd just barrel in, like always, and you'd forgive me, like always."

Andy had said that, too – that James had only ever forgiven Jeremy before. Over the last two months James has begun to realize how much he'd done himself a disservice there, by not asking for what he wanted. But he hasn't, until now, considered just how much he was doing Jeremy a disservice, too. How much he'd assumed Jeremy _knew_ , when maybe it wasn't obvious at all.

God, what a shock that argument must have been, the first time James threw him out of the house. 

"It's no excuse," Jeremy says again. "But I thought you might like the explanation anyway." He meets James' eyes at last, smiles almost gently. "And I am sorry. I'm so bloody sorry."

The bare apology leaves James breathless. 

And then, before he can recover, Jeremy says, "And I want you to know that two weeks ago I went home for a visit and I told mum about us."

James sucks in a sharp breath. Jeremy hurries on, like he thinks James is going to launch into shouting at him all over again. "Maybe that wasn't the right thing for you, maybe you didn't want anyone to know and if that's the case I'll... I'll let you kick me in the plums as much as you like, all right, but I needed to do it." He takes a deep breath. "I needed to get right with her before I could say I'd got right with myself. Just like I'm here, because I need to get right with you." 

He seems to run out of steam then, shoulders dropping down a little as he slumps back against the sofa cushions. For a moment they just look at each other. James' head feels thick and stupid and his chest aches, like it's stuffed full of every emotion he could possibly name and then some. 

He's angry and hurt still – having an explanation has blunted those feelings somewhat, but not eradicated them completely – and it's all jumbled up with his anger at himself, with hope, with wariness, with confusion.

But more than any of that, he's so fucking proud of Jeremy for being this brave.

James clears his throat. Then he holds out his arms. "Come here," he says.

Jeremy stares at him. James scoots forward and puts his arms around Jeremy's shoulders, pulls him into a hug. Jeremy is stiff at first, and then all the breath goes out of him at once and he melts into James' chest, tipping his head down to rest his forehead against the side of James' face. His arms go around James' waist. It's the most they've touched in more than two months.

They sit there for a long time.

Finally Jeremy lifts his head. His eyes are a little bit red. 

"What now?" he says.


	13. Chapter 13

_Finally Jeremy lifts his head. His eyes are a little bit red._

_"What now?" he says._

James opens his mouth, shuts it again. "I don't know," he says.

"Do you want me to—" Jeremy says, and then stops. He clears his throat. "Look, you told me to fuck off and I've done my best, and if that's what you want—"

" _Of course not_ ," James snaps. "For god's sake, Jeremy. It's unbearable." He crosses his arms over his chest, putting a little bit of space between them. He doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't want to admit just how lonely and miserable he's been over the last few months. It's pathetic. He's supposed to be the unattainable one; Jeremy's supposed to be the one who regrets all his choices. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?

But Jeremy is looking at him with an expression on his face that says he's actually listening. And... and he's just all but bared his soul to James. How can James do anything less than the same?

He takes a deep breath, tries to gather himself. "I was happy, too, Jez," he says, "at first. I'm... I've wanted you for a long time, I'm sure that much was obvious." He can't make himself look at Jeremy now, so he locks his gaze on the drawing of Fusker that hangs by the door to the kitchen. "So I was happy enough to take what I could get, even if it meant we didn't talk about it. But... then I lost my friend." He tips his head in Jeremy's direction just to make his meaning clear. "We didn't do things together anymore. Christ, I never even saw you if you weren't rat-arsed and sticking your hand down my trousers. Or working, and pretending none of it ever happened." He scrubs a hand over his mouth. "Do you remember when I tried to kiss you? You'd just walked in the door, hadn't had a drink yet, and you just... flinched."

Jeremy makes a pained noise, but he doesn't move to interrupt, and after a moment James carries on. "It was bloody horrible. That was when I realized something wasn't right. I didn't want..." He struggles for the right words, and suddenly a sentence comes back to him, a thought from that disastrous afternoon when he'd thrown Jeremy out, the first time. "I don't want to be a dirty little secret that you're keeping from yourself. I don't want to feel like I have to be ashamed of— of what I am. Of who I am." 

Now he makes himself meet Jeremy's eyes. "So yes, I threw you out and I wasn't as clear as I could've been about why. But I didn't think it'd be as permanent as all that! I thought you'd come back in a day or two and we'd have a nice, enthusiastic shouting match and it'd all get sorted." He sighs. "And then in Belgium... I tried, Jez. Maybe not hard enough, but I _did_ try to talk to you. But you did an excellent job of avoiding me right up until you were pissed and wanted a leg over." 

He pauses to let Jeremy deny that, if he wants, but Jeremy just looks shame-faced and says nothing. James says, "By the time we got back to Dunsfold... I was angry and hurt and yes, I admit it, too bloody proud to do anything but tell you off. But you chuffing well deserved it!"

"I know I did," Jeremy says. "I know."

"And the thing is," James says, words suddenly spilling out easily, "I just kept waiting for you to come back, even after that. Just kept waiting for you to apologize, or, not even apologize, because when have you ever done that? But for you to come back and try to fix things somehow. But instead you just went away and did god knows what for two months and gave me that strained politeness every time we had to speak like I was a complete fucking stranger." His voice breaks a little on the last word and he turns away, stares fixedly at nothing in particular just trying to get control of himself. Somehow this bit is the worst, though James has no idea why. Why should it have been worse for Jeremy to be so distant than it was for him to be too close? Why should he prefer Jeremy being a cock to being nothing at all?

There is the touch of a hand to his shoulder, tentative. Jeremy says, "I'm sorry."

For some reason this makes James burst out laughing. "Oh, god, don't say that so bloody much. I'll start getting used to it." He makes himself turn back, meet Jeremy's eyes again. "Jez. Of course I appreciate the apology. It's... I know how hard this must be for you. But..." He trails off, not knowing how to finish the thought. He doesn't quite want to say that the apology isn't enough. 

But it isn't enough.

"What do you want?" Jeremy asks. "Tell me what you want and I swear, James, I'll do it, whatever the fuck it is."

James opens his mouth. What comes out is, "I want a date."

Jeremy blinks. "A date?"

"A date." James has no idea what strange part of his brain had come up with _that_ instead of 'I want to road test the Aston next series' or 'Give me your new Ferrari' or 'You can start with getting on your knees and begging my forgiveness on national fucking television.' But now that he's said it, he can't un-say it.

And now that he's said it... maybe it isn't so far from what he wants after all. If he's going to attempt something real with Jeremy, they'll have to start somewhere. The real question is whether they're going to attempt it at all. James clears his throat. "That is... if you want."

"God, yes," Jeremy blurts. His eyes are locked on James', wide and painfully hopeful. "I— James. You have to know that I haven't stopped wanting you. It killed me, too, these last few months, but I knew I had to—"

James holds up a hand, and Jeremy stops talking abruptly, shuts his mouth with a click.

"I want a _date_ ," James says. "Not just— I don't want to do what we were doing before. I don't even want... I can't do friends and coworkers by day and sex at night and never the twain shall meet, Jez, I can't." He takes a deep breath. "I can't. If we're doing this, I want a relationship. I want to go out sometimes and do things. I want you to come over sometimes just because you want to see me, not because you want to fuck or because you want to talk about the show or because, I don't know, because you can't face cooking your own bloody dinner. And I don't want to pretend we're not doing it. I'm not saying take out a full page ad in the Daily Mail, but I want to tell Richard and Andy, at least. I want to tell my friends. And when... if we get as far as having sex again, I want to wake up in the morning and find you still there." 

He scrubs the palm of one hand over his knee, feeling far too exposed. "So if you don't think you can give me that, then you'd better say so now, Jez. I won't blame you. I know I'm hardly— I'm difficult and prickly and stubborn and I get caught up in motorbike things for hours and I'll probably end up shouting at you quite often. And I'm not—" He pauses. "Glamorous." Possibly the understatement of the century, that. "So, if you just want to be mates again..." 

"I want to try," Jeremy says, quiet, serious. "I'm... I can't promise you I won't give you plenty of reasons to shout at me. But I want to try. All right?"

Maybe this is a terrible idea. Maybe James ought to harden his heart, ought not to just hand it over, bare and beating, for Jeremy to crush all over again. Maybe this will turn out to be the stupidest decision he's ever made. "All right," James says. 

\-----

They spend a couple of hours talking, after that, catching up on each other's lives over the last few months. By unspoken agreement they keep things light – James talks about his plans for Man Lab, his new motorcycle, while Jeremy tells anecdotes about meetings with his editor at the Sun. The conversation isn't quite easy, not when there are so many pitfalls they both have to carefully skirt around, but it isn't quite awkward, either.

Eventually Jeremy looks at his watch. "I'd better go," he says reluctantly. "I'm heading home again to mum's tonight, just for dinner, and I've got a lot of work to do before that."

"Sure," James says. They get up from the sofa, walk into the hall. James gets Jeremy's coat from the closet, feeling suddenly anxious again. Are they just going to shake on it and go their separate ways? Is he supposed to give Jeremy a hug? He doesn't bloody know.

Jeremy takes the coat with a nod of thanks, shrugs it on. Then he says, abruptly, "Can I kiss you?"

James' hand curls into a fist. He makes himself relax it, slowly, deliberately. "All right."

He keeps his eyes open as they lean in. Jeremy's eyes are open, too. It's a soft kiss, chaste, hesitant. But good. Really good.

Jeremy pulls away far too soon. He clears his throat. "Are you free Friday night?"

It takes a long moment for James to work out how to respond. "I'm— er. Yes. That's— yes." Actually he has no idea if he has anything planned for Friday. But for this, he'll make time.

"Can I pick you up at seven?"

James nods, a little bit helplessly. "All right," he says again.

"Brilliant," Jeremy says, and then, "okay, right, I'm going before this gets any more awkward." He hesitates, then reaches out and brushes his fingertips across the back of James' hand. "Take care."

"You too." James wants to kiss him again, but he makes himself reach past Jeremy instead and open the door. Jeremy gives him a glimmer of a smile, then turns away. James watches as he goes down the walk, unlocks his car and climbs in, drives away. Only then does he breathe out, a long, slow exhale, and close the door.

He stands there for a moment. Then he goes back into the sitting room, reaches for his phone, and calls Richard.

It rings twice before Richard picks up. "Hi, James."

"Hello, Hammond." James swallows, then just blurts it out. "Look, I thought you should hear it from me first. Jez and I are giving things another go. Properly, I mean."

Richard is silent for a beat. He says, "You sure that's what you want?" 

"Not even remotely," James says. He laughs. "I'm chuffing terrified. But..." Consciously he chooses Jeremy's words. "I want to try."

"You're a brave man," Richard says, sounding half admiring and half rueful. "For what it's worth, I've talked to him about things a bit." James sucks in a breath, and Richard says, hurriedly, "Nothing too personal. I just mean— He told me he was going to stop drinking for a while. And as far as I can tell, he actually stuck to it. So that's something. I guess what I'm saying is... I'm glad you're giving him a chance. And if he doesn't stuff it up again, I think you could be good together."

"Thanks," James says. "I think."

Richard snorts. "Yes, well, I could be sitting here telling you that you're completely mental, so count your blessings, all right?"

"Fair point," James concedes. "Thanks, Hammond. See you in a couple of weeks?" 

"Yeah," Richard says, "and by the way I look forward to never hearing any details ever, if that's all right."

James snorts. "Goodbye, Hammond," he says, and hangs up.

\-----

James spends the week distracted. Some part of him thinks that it would be better not to anticipate too much, better not to set expectations for himself, even subconsciously, that Jeremy has no chance of fulfilling. But sometimes he can't help it – he finds himself at the sink or the piano or in the garage (or once, in a meeting with Sim and six BBC executives) suddenly imagining what Jeremy will look like when he turns up on Friday, the twist of his hair around his ear, the soft, lush curve of his mouth. He wonders whether Jeremy will be cocky or shy, whether he'll interpret 'date' as an invitation to treat James as he would a woman and bring flowers or something equally daft. 

Whether it will be weird to go on a date when they haven't even really figured out how to be friends again. Because James has easily as many moments of apprehension as he does anticipation – moments when he feels overwhelmed and wary, when he thinks about that flinch and feels the flush of shame rise in his cheeks, as horrible as the first time.

It's all scrambled up inside, like a particularly unpleasant emotional casserole, and every time James tries to sort things out he just gets hopelessly muddled all over again trying to distinguish between what he thinks he wants, what he thinks he's allowed to want, what he thinks he might actually get.

In the end he decides that the only thing for it is just to try and look forward instead of back. Because he's tired of feeling sad and angry and horrible, tired of picking over every single interaction in the hopes of trying to understand where it had all gone wrong. He just wants to feel happy again. 

\-----

Jeremy texts him a few times – once on Monday to ask, "Something a little bit dressy all right for Friday?" and again on Thursday with, "James... I'm really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow." Which makes James go a bit week in the knees, quite frankly, and it's nearly half an hour before he can make himself text back with, "Me, too."


	14. Chapter 14

When the doorbell rings, just before seven, James is already standing in the hallway. He's straightened his tie about ten times already, and has been fiddling awkwardly with the cuffs of his shirt for the past five minutes. Normally he hates wearing a suit, hates feeling trapped by all the stiff bits, but tonight he's almost grateful for it. At least it's a distraction from the wholly unwanted nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door.

It's long past sunset, and the wan white light of the nearest street lamp leaves Jeremy mostly in shadow. James can tell he's wearing a suit, a nicely-tailored one, but it's not until Jeremy steps into the warm wash of the hallway light that James can see the crisp whiteness of his shirt, the smooth silk of his tie, the way the cut of the trousers emphasizes the length of his legs.

At some point James realizes that he's basically just giving Jeremy a blatant once-over, but when he jerks his mortified gaze up he finds that Jeremy is smiling rather nervously. 

"Er," James says. "H'lo, Jez."

"Hi," Jeremy says. "You look great."

James feels his cheeks heat at that. "You too," he says, and then, with a sense of mounting desperation, "Shall we go?"

They make small talk in the car on the way to the restaurant, which turns out to be a rather nice Italian place that James has been past and noted but never managed to actually go into. The waiter settles them at their table. It's near the back, miraculously sheltered from view of most of the restaurant by a large potted plant. James suspects Jeremy of requesting it especially, which speaks of a degree of forethought he hadn't quite thought possible. When they've gone out for dinner in the past they've often been hounded by autograph-seekers, but Jeremy's attitude had always been to moan about the inconvenience and then take it as his due anyway. The thought that perhaps he'd have gone so far as to request a quiet table just for the two of them makes James feel warm and a little bit disconcerted. 

Maybe he really doesn't know Jeremy as well as he'd thought.

But equally, maybe that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Because isn't that the point of all of this, to get to know each other?

They fall quiet as they consult their menus. The waiter swings by again, asks if they'd like a drink. This time James is surprised again, when Jeremy asks just for a bottle of sparkling water, and he blinks stupidly for a moment before managing to say that water will be just fine for him as well.

When the waiter is out of earshot, James blurts, "Have you really given it up permanently, then?" He winces before the words have even finished coming out. _Well done, May,_ he thinks. _Have you considered the many and various benefits of applying some sodding subtlety once in a while?_

But Jeremy just considers him for a moment, seemingly unoffended. Finally he blows out a breath and says, "No. No, I haven't. I mean, I have for now. I wasn't— I meant it the other day, when I said I haven't had a drink in two months. But permanently? I don't think I can. To be honest, it's dreadful. I'm drearier like this, I overanalyze everything, I'm a hell of a lot less fun at parties. And worse, I don't even enjoy myself – at the end of series party the other week all I could think of was how stupid everyone looked with their big, drunk, beaming faces. I wanted to sit in a corner and read a book. And then I hated myself for being supercilious about it as well." He looks down at the table, then back up again. "I'm— Don't get me wrong, I know I was being an idiot about it and there are things I need to do before I can go back to drinking anything at all, but I don't think I can survive on elderflower cordial forever. If you can't live with that..."

"It's all right," James says, and is surprised to find that he means it. But then again, it was never the drinking that he objected to, not really – it was the way the drinking excused everything else. And at least Jeremy's being honest. "Jez." On impulse he reaches over, sets his hand on top of Jeremy's where it rests on the table. "I'd be a hell of a hypocrite if I said I wanted you to give it up forever, wouldn't I?"

The tension in Jeremy's shoulders eases a little. "Well," he says. "Yes. A bit." He curls one finger sideways, runs it down the inside of James' thumb. Then he laughs ruefully. "We're just going to keep jabbing each other in the soft places, aren't we?"

"I think we're a bit early for jabbing anything into anything," James drawls, and is rewarded when Jeremy barks out a laugh. 

"You've got a dirty mind, James," he says, but he's smiling properly now. James' heart does a little flip to see it.

The waiter returns, and James takes his hand away under the pretense of reaching for his menu. After they've ordered Jeremy turns the conversation to other things and they chat for a while about books they've been reading recently – Jeremy a new book on codebreaking in WWII and James a detailed history of the Honda motorbike, which earns him a bit of tentative ribbing. James rolls his eyes and tries not to let on that Jeremy saying 'Good god, James, you have the taste of a twelve year old!' makes him feel decidedly fond.

It's a good date. James feels a bit like a boil has been lanced – it's not that things are healed between them, not entirely, but the worst of the venom has gone and they can treat each other gently now. They can laugh at each other, laugh _with_ each other. And James can let himself notice the way Jeremy's fingers curl around his fork, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He doesn't have to feel pathetic for wanting, not when it's obvious that Jeremy is wanting, too. 

He's attentive in lots of subtle ways – topping up James' glass of water from the bottle when it's running low, passing the butter just as James looks for it, before he can ask – but it's less the detail and more the feeling of Jeremy's eyes on him that seeps into James' skin. It feels like Jeremy is drinking him in with every glance, savoring him. Nothing he does is indiscreet, but nonetheless there's something open about his appreciation, honest in a way that he wasn't, before.

By the time they're walking back across the car park to Jeremy's Merc, James is half-hard, arousal simmering like a long-baking pie. It's too soon to do anything about it – far too soon – but he relishes knowing that he doesn't have to squash the feeling.

He indulges himself on the short drive home, letting his eyes flick from Jeremy's hand on the gear lever to Jeremy's bottom lip, caught between his teeth. But finally they pull up to the curb. The walk to James' door has never seemed more unwelcoming.

"Walk me up?" James says. It comes out huskier than he'd intended, but he doesn't take it back.

Jeremy bobs his head nervously. "Sure."

Their shoulders brush as they go up the walk. James had forgotten to leave the front light on, so it's dark when he puts his hand on Jeremy's elbow, dark when he leans in.

Jeremy's mouth is soft, stuttering, sweet. James kisses it open, touches the tip of his tongue to Jeremy's, breathes him in. God, it's good. It's so good it's practically luminous, even here in the sheltered dark of the stoop with so many things still left unsaid.

When they finally pull apart, James' heart is beating like mad. He can barely keep his voice steady when he says, "All right, Jez?"

"Yeah," Jeremy says. James can hear him swallow. "Very all right." He kisses James again then, reaching up to slide one hand into James' hair and pull him closer. James goes willingly and they trade more kisses, open-mouthed and searching. It's only when he realizes that he's near to melted against Jeremy's chest that James can make himself pull away.

"I'd better go," Jeremy says, though his thumb is still rubbing slow circles into the skin of James' neck.

"I suppose you'd better," James says.

It's another long moment before they disentangle themselves. 

"G'night, James," Jeremy says. 

"Goodnight, Jez." James puts a hand into the pocket of his jacket, hanging on to the cool, reassuring solidity of his keys as Jeremy goes back down the walk. When Jeremy gets in the car James sighs and turns away, fumbling the door open.

He's barely got it shut behind him when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it reflexively. The screen says, 'I had a wonderful time tonight. When can I see you again?'

\-----

The following Friday they have another dinner date. It's pleasant enough, and Jeremy leaves him on the stoop with more searing kisses, but by Sunday James finds himself fretting that maybe it had been _too_ pleasant. Sure, it's good that they can do small talk, can joke and laugh without immediately getting into a shouting match. But it still feels a little like there's a wall between them. 

Perhaps this is just what dating is like – it's been so long since James has gone on a date with someone that he's honestly forgotten how it had felt, other than an abstract memory of awkwardness. Still, on their third date he pushes a little, tries to draw the conversation to something a little more honest, and after a thinly-veiled expression of surprise Jeremy goes along with it, perhaps because there's only so much either of them can say about writing new columns and meetings with editors. 

Jeremy ends up talking about his post-Repton life, going round the country trying to sell stuffed bears to toy stores but mainly shopping himself to newspapers instead. 

"It was months before Mum forgave me for that," he says, "even after I'd got the job and moved out. God, what an absolute tosser I was."

"But she did accept things eventually?" James asks, pausing in slicing his steak. He's met Mrs. Clarkson, of course, when they made the film with all of their mums, but he doesn't know much about Jeremy's relationship with her. It's obvious that Jeremy cares deeply for her, at least judging by what he's said over the last few weeks. 

"Oh yes," Jeremy says, reassuringly confident. "Eventually. Took a while for her to be convinced I was going to be able to make a living at writing, but I think she knew that I'd never hack it selling those bloody bears, not really." He smiles, a little bit sadly. "I never could just do the sensible thing. I always had to get obsessed with something, had to get these grandiose ideas and then push and prod at them until they either succeeded or fell apart entirely. Which I suppose has worked out, career-wise. But I know I'm lucky as hell. I could've just as easily struck out. Can you imagine? I'd probably still be shrugging around some tiny town, writing about church picnics and stolen bicycles." He takes a breath. "What about you?" It's a transparent attempt to change the subject. "Don't tell me you were the perfect little choirboy at that age."

James snorts. "Hardly." But he surprises himself by wanting to return the confidence. "I was getting my degree, of course, but I'm sure you'll be shocked to know that meant rather more drinking and listening to Genesis than actually studying. I occasionally wore denim waistcoats and embroidered my jeans, which caused some mild consternation at home. Dad had wanted me to do engineering rather than music, so there was a bit of tension about that." He licks his lips, then lowers his voice, even though the restaurant is near to empty. "I brought girls home a few times, but I knew by then that my heart wasn't in it. In retrospect that was probably obvious. They were good about it, though."

Jeremy's expression is rapt, and James finds himself giving more detail than he'd meant to. "I told them when I was twenty one, I think," he says. "I'd just finished school and moved out. Mum told me later that Dad spent the whole weekend in his shed, and then when he came back out all he said to her was that at least I wouldn't make them grandparents before time." He wants to ask what Mrs. Clarkson had to say about Jeremy's revelation of his sexuality, but it seems too intimate a question to ask here, now, even though he'd wanted something honest, even though he's just been talking about his own experience. So instead he says, "And, unlike you, I at least made an attempt to do the sensible thing, career-wise. But I did find the civil service dreadfully boring."

"I'm glad you did," Jeremy says, unexpectedly sincere. "I mean, can you imagine the two of us meeting in some other life? Me writing a sloppy little piece about the opening of Rotherham's new Tesco Metro, you doing civil service work and writing in to complain about my typos."

"We'd've hated each other, I'm sure," James says, but for a moment he really can imagine it – the two of them meeting somewhere, arguing, falling into familiarity and then friendship and then taking a tentative pass at something else, much as they're doing now. Perhaps things would have gone a lot easier between them if they'd neither been in the public eye, only responsible to themselves. 

Or perhaps they would have both been miserable in those sensible little lives. Perhaps they would only have been looking for something anarchic and destructive in each other.

It's an unsettling thought, and after a moment James shakes it away, gives Jeremy a smile and applies himself to his steak once more.

\-----

Their fourth date is easy, quiet, pleasant. On their fifth date James is tired from a long day of arguing with BBC executives about the new _Toy Stories_ , and when Jeremy makes an ill-timed joke about James' alleged OCD they end up having a shouting match in the car before they've even pulled away from the curb. Jeremy accuses him of being oversensitive. James, in turn, accuses Jeremy of not being able to consider the feelings of another human being unless he is punched in the face by them. 

It goes downhill from there. Eventually James just throws up his hands and gets out, slamming the door shut on Jeremy's shout of "James, you self-righteous prick, don't you dare—"

He's barely into the house when the regret comes, rising thick and angry in the back of his throat. But he can already hear the roar of the Merc as Jeremy drives off. It's too late to turn around now. He sits down on the sofa and puts his head in his hands.

Maybe he'd been a fool to think they could do this. There's too much history between them, too many hurts on the one hand and too many secret daydreams on the other. It's hardly Jeremy's fault that James wants him to be... someone else. Or, at the very least, some idealized version of himself.

If James could just learn how to be happy taking whatever he could get— but no, he can't do that. That's what had got them into trouble in the first place.

Eventually the doorbell rings. James wants nothing more than to be left alone to wallow in his self-castigation, but he makes himself get up and go to the door. 

When he opens it, Jeremy is there, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets. "I— before, you said that you kept waiting for me to come back," he says. "So... this is me, coming back."

The fight drains out of James all at once, like water through a plughole. "Yeah," he says. "Jez... Sod it, Jeremy, I'm sorry. It's been a shit day, but I shouldn't take it out on you."

"No, you bloody well shouldn't," Jeremy says, but he follows that up with, "But I shouldn't pick at you all the time, either. It's just... sometimes it's easier to do that than to admit how much I've been wanting to see you." The rawness of it is utterly disarming, and James has to catch his breath before he can speak.

"You don't have to keep that a secret, not from me," he says finally. "In fact, I'd prefer you didn't." He gives Jeremy a pointed look.

"I—" Jeremy says, and then, "Yes, all right. You're right." He looks surprised to have said it, but he doesn't take it back. Instead he swallows, and says, "Look, of course I want to see you. Sometimes I can barely think about anything else. Whenever I come up with a joke you might like I squirrel it away in the back of my head because I love your big, daft laugh. Last week I went out and bought a book about _motorcycles_ , for god's sake. And... and..."

James doesn't have the right words for the wild feeling in his chest at this rambling declaration. He lifts a hand, runs his knuckles down Jeremy's cheek and then draws him in and kisses him, careless of the fact that they're still standing in the doorway where anyone could see. When they part, he feels a little calmer, a little more settled.

"Right," Jeremy says, sounding a bit breathless. "Do you still want dinner?" 

James snorts. "Yes, all right."

\-----

It's odd, but James finds things a little easier after that, as if some part of him has stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. They're going to argue now and again, going to shout at each other – of course they bloody are – but it doesn't have to destroy everything. Probably.

A few more dates come and go, filled with little tidbits of laughter and the occasional quiet truth. At the end of each evening Jeremy walks James up to his door, kisses him thoroughly goodnight – and then leaves him there, both of them breathing hard, both of them wanting. James isn't sure why Jeremy hasn't pushed for more – to be honest, he isn't even entirely sure why _he_ hasn't pushed for more. Is it that some part of him is still terrified that Jeremy is going to panic in the middle of a snog, flinch back and decide that no, actually, he really is straight after all? Is it that he's holding some part of himself in reserve for some unspecified relationship milestone?

Whatever it is, he isn't ready. Not yet.

\-----

They meet with the Top Gear writers to start making plans for the new series, and it's almost like it used to be. James catches Richard and Andy exchanging a glance once or twice, but they don't make a production of the thawed relations, which is frankly a miracle. The first time Jeremy calls him a useless idiot during a planning meeting he immediately looks repentant, but James is so relieved by the normality of it that he calls Jeremy a blind oaf in return, with a tremendous smile on his face.

They go out with the crew and make a film in Yorkshire. In the hotel bar that night they end up all staying up far too late, laughing and joking and talking bollocks. Jeremy sticks to coke and James does, too, tipping the rim of his glass against Jeremy's in a silent toast before they drink. When they go upstairs at last Jeremy says goodnight with a squeeze of the hand and a warm smile, and James goes to sleep still thinking about the feeling of Jeremy's broad palm against his own.

They have another date the Friday after that, a casual dinner at James' favorite curry place. The conversation wanders from favorite films to arguing about music to Jeremy telling a very ridiculous anecdote about something Andy had done back at Repton. This last is the kind of thing that James ought to be mentally storing away as blackmail material the next time he wants to get first crack at testing something new and exciting. But instead for some reason all he can think about is that bit of argument he'd heard, between Jeremy and Andy, all those months ago.

He can't figure out how to bring it up, not without giving away far too much. But he's beginning to think that maybe he'd had it all wrong.

\-----

Jeremy calls him on Sunday and they chat for a half hour about nothing in particular – about James' abortive attempt to repair his sputtering electric kettle, about varieties of toast, about Jeremy's encounter with an aging grandmother in a corner shop who'd turned out to be a fan and who'd badgered him about his Lamborghini review from the last series for so long that eventually he'd faked an urgent text message in order to make his escape.

It's not until long after they've hung up that James realizes he has no idea why Jeremy had called. Not to talk about the show, not to reschedule a date, not even to complain about his neighbor's annoying dog. James scratches his chin and spends the rest of the day feeling mildly bemused. 

\-----

That Wednesday, James has dinner in the pub with Colin and a couple of other mates. There's a moment when they're alone at the table – Dave's gone to the bar to buy another round, Mark's gone out for a smoke – and Colin sets his empty glass down and says, apropos of nothing in particular, "Things finally working out, then?"

James doesn't pretend to misunderstand him. "Yes," he says. "I— yes. They are." And then, with a rush of honesty, "It's Jeremy, by the way. In case it wasn't obvious."

"I thought it might be," Colin says wryly. He hesitates, then says, "You look happy."

"I... I am," James says. He doesn't understand why he's surprised by the words. Perhaps despite everything, he'd never really thought he'd ever get to be happy.

\-----

On Saturday they see the new Bond film, then grab a quick bite to eat after, talking over what they'd liked and what they hadn't, how they'd have done the cars differently. Jeremy insists that, had he devoted his life to it, he'd have been an excellent spy. James says that he rather thinks Jeremy's life as a spy would have been a short one – entertaining, but short.

Back at the house, Jeremy walks him up. Before he can lean in for his usual goodnight kiss James puts his hand on Jeremy's wrist and says, "Jeremy—" 

Jeremy's skin is warm beneath his palm, reassuringly solid. Maybe James isn't ready. Maybe he'll never be ready. But he can't let that stop him. 

He takes a deep breath. "Come in?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally started this for TGS' spring challenge 2014 and the prompt "sharing a bed," but it rapidly took on a life of its own. Thank you so much to all the people who have commented along the way, and thank you all for your patience as the story figured out what it wanted to be.


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